by Andrew Price
“Hey,” Molly said from Corbin’s doorway. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“What? Your co-conspirator do something to keep you awake all night, huddled in the corner. . . crying?”
“Always playing the dick aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?!”
“Private detective.”
“Yeah, you better explain that!” Molly drifted over to Beckett’s desk and scanned the items Beckett left lying around. “What kept you awake?”
“An old movie. I started watching it and then couldn’t get myself to go to bed. Then they ran another one that pretty much kept me up until just before dawn.”
“What was all the yelling about yesterday?”
“You tell me. I was under the impression you two just don’t like each other.”
Molly gave Corbin a sour look. “You know what I mean. The minute I left here, you and your little friend started yelling at each other.”
“Did we really? Somehow I missed that.”
“Fine, I don’t care.” Molly crashed down into Beckett’s chair. “What were you watching last night?”
“Night at the Opera.”
“I don’t know it.”
“It’s old.”
“I’m not into opera.”
“I am, but that’s not why I watched the movie.”
Molly picked up Beckett’s stapler and rolled it in her hands. “I had an ok night.” Molly obviously wanted Corbin to ask for further details about her night, but Corbin was in no mood to make this easy on her.
“Good, glad to hear it.”
“Of course, it could have gone better.”
“Usually can. Have you heard if it’s going to rain today?”
Molly exhaled loudly. “Do I look like the weather channel?”
“You didn’t see anything in the paper?”
“Stop asking me!” Molly said in her well-practiced exasperated tone. “Do you want to hear what happened last night or not?”
Corbin shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, do I?”
Molly stood up. “I hear my phone,” she said bitterly, and she left.
Corbin laughed. “Score one for the home team.”
Chapter 9
Two days later, Corbin sat in the middle of the main conference room at the Maria de Santo Hotel in Washington. Beckett sat on his left, Molly on his right. By coincidence, all three wore light-gray suits. Around them, nearly two hundred people watched speech after speech with feigned professional interest.
Theresa was nowhere to be seen. She secluded herself since the fight with Molly and even refused Corbin’s offer to help with Wilson’s speech.
Wilson began his speech with a joke that received only polite laughter and quickly moved on to outlining the difficulties of running the office. He spoke in rambling, complex sentences and used much larger words than were needed. Though the speech may have looked erudite on paper, it sounded confused and pretentious when spoken. Without a doubt, Corbin knew Theresa had sabotaged it. He smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Molly and Beckett asked in unison.
Corbin waved them off as Wilson droned on, having moved on to the lack of attention the office received in the media: We’re often called the forgotten office because we rarely end up in the newspapers. In fact, I can’t think of the last time we made the papers.
“Too bad the papers didn’t ignore his last divorce,” Molly whispered in Corbin’s ear.
“It’s hard to ignore allegations of a naked car chase.”
“What did she say?” Beckett whispered, nodding toward Molly. Owing to the ambient noise of the room, neither Beckett nor Molly could hear the other when they whispered to Corbin. Thus, Corbin found himself passing along each comment.
“Wilson’s last divorce.”
“Oh, right,” Beckett snickered.
. . . because our function is so specialized, many people don’t even know precisely what it is that we do.
“Hell, I don’t know what we do,” Corbin grumbled.
My goal for the coming year, a year that may result in consequential changes to the manner in which we operate, is to introduce a new paradigm to the office that is both forward looking, pragmatic, and goal oriented, though consistent with our core mission.
“What the heck does that mean?” Beckett asked.
Notwithstanding recent changes in our enacting legislation, I expect we will see significant alterations to our regulations. As many of you have recognized in the past, our regulations are some of the most complex in the world, and are not easily understood.
“Did he just say our regulations suck?” Molly asked, as a smile crept across her face.
“That’s how I took it. Maybe this is his mea culpa?”
“Can’t wait to see what he confesses next. My money’s on erectile dysfunction.”
Corbin let out a surprised laugh, which he immediately covered with a phony cough.
Consequently, I am normally hesitant to discuss alterations to our regulations with an audience of this size. Yet, I am confident that the people in this room are some of the brightest in our industry. Thus, I am confident that I can address these matters without fear of giving an impenetrable speech.
“Bingo!” Molly whispered.
“Bingo?”
“‘Impenetrable’. I also would have accepted ‘flaccid’ or ‘impotent’.”
The concerns many commentators raised in response to our requests for comments notwithstanding, significant pressure has been building for the issuance of new regulations.
“This is boring,” Molly said, as she began kicking the empty seat in front of her.
It has been said that achieving the right level of regulation is the most difficult balancing act one can perform because you never know if the regulations are correct until after they are implemented. It is like the problem of knowing when you are in love. You may think you are in love a dozen times, and each time you believe with absolute certainty that you are correct. But it is not until you truly are in love that you realize that each of the prior times was not love, but something lesser.
“What the heck does love have to do with our regulations?” Molly whispered. She wrinkled her nose. “Do you think our regs might be worth reading?”
Corbin shook his head and mouthed the word “no.”
The process of regulation is much the same as figuring out whether you’re in love. You create regulations that appear to be correct, only to discover later that you were not correct, although with each passing attempt, you ultimately draw closer. This time, with our new proposed regulations, I believe that our regulations finally truly are correct.
“This is nonsense. What an awful speech. I wonder how much longer this is going to last?” Corbin asked as he checked his watch.
Finally, let me address the issue of staffing.
“Here it comes, get your waders on.”
Our office is dangerously understaffed. We are so understaffed that our mission is being imperiled and a significant backlog of work is developing. This may cause our service to suffer. Unfortunately, we cannot correct that situation alone. We need each of you, who recognizes the importance of what we do, to contact your representatives and demand increased support for our office.
Beckett looked around the room. “Do you think anybody’s buying this?” He no longer bothered to whisper.
“Who knows, some people will believe anything.” Corbin stopped whispering as well.
It is a large backlog and will require significant man hours to overcome.
Beckett whispered to Corbin. “I had another thought about the duffel bag.”
“This isn’t the best place to discuss that,” Corbin said, nodding his head toward Molly.
“She can’t hear me.”
“Let’s not test it.”
Again, notwithstanding the criticism leveled, our actual experience is quite different.
Molly rolled her eyes.
“I wish he’d stop saying ‘notwithstanding!’” Suddenly the room erupted in applause, which dissipated almost instantly, as people began streaming toward the reception area at the back of the room. “‘bout flippin’ time,” Molly said, as she grabbed her purse. “You boys staying for the reception?”
“Not on a bet.”
“Good, who wants to buy me lunch?”
The following morning, Kak sent out an e-mail praising Wilson’s speech. Kak called the speech “brilliant and visionary,” causing much hilarity in Corbin and Beckett’s office. Kak did not acknowledge Theresa’s assistance. Around noon, Corbin paid Theresa a visit.
“Nice speech, very subtle.”
“I figured you’d get it.” Theresa smiled.
“Oh, I think we all got it, except for Kak and Wilson that is.”
“Do you know that bastard didn’t even give me credit for writing the thing?” Theresa complained.
“Did you want credit?”
“Absolutely not.”
Corbin leaned against a large filing cabinet. “On this thing with Molly. . . I wouldn’t worry too much about what Molly says. Nobody really listens to her.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“All right. Beckett and I are going to lunch, if you want to tag along.”
“No. Thank you, though. I’ve got something I need to finish. Maybe tomorrow?” she said, but without sincerity.
“Sure. Catch you later then.”
Corbin turned to leave. However, as he put his hand on the doorknob, Theresa spoke: “Tell me you don’t like her?”
“Who?”
“Molly. Tell me you aren’t interested in her?”
Corbin didn’t expect this. “Come again?”
“I have no illusion that you and I will ever. . . but as a friend. . . she’s bad news. She enjoys tearing people down. Be careful with her,” Theresa said quietly. She rose and looked out her window. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
“I have no interest in her,” he responded.
Chapter 10
With two days to go, Corbin and Beckett spent the morning going over a map of downtown Philadelphia. Corbin marked each mailbox store and bank on the map. Together, they plotted the route Beckett and Alvarez would take. After finishing with the map, Corbin reached into his briefcase and produced a clear plastic bag containing a wallet and some papers. This was one of the packets which would be inside the duffel bag.
“Each plastic bag has a name on it and a colored dot.”
“Colored dot, check,” Beckett said, nodding his head.
“The dot is very important because it lets you match the right phones with the right addresses and the right wallets. Each wallet contains a drivers license, a social security card, and $220 in cash.”
“That’s a lot of cash between all those packets.”
“It takes money to make money.”
Beckett again nodded his agreement.
“Each packet contains a wallet, a fake lease and a fake utility bill,” Corbin continued. “When you buy a cell phone, put a colored sticker on the back and write the phone number on the sticker. From that moment on, that phone will go with any packet bearing the same colored dot.”
“Got it.”
“Same thing with the mailboxes. When you open a box, put a colored sticker on the back of the paperwork. Use this chart to decide which color dot to use for each mailbox.” Corbin handed Beckett a piece of paper the size of a playing card. “You need to follow that chart so the street addresses on the leases and the utility bills match the street addresses of the mailboxes. I need that to organize the accounts. Once you have the right color dot on the paperwork, go through each packet with the same colored dot and handwrite the mailbox number on the lease.” Corbin handed Beckett the fake lease from the packet.
Beckett verified where the box number would be added.
Corbin handed him the wallet. “We got a bunch of these at dollar stores. They’re all a little different, but they all have what we need. Before Nobody goes into a bank, give him the lease and the utility bill from the packet. He’ll put those into his pocket. Then open the wallet and re-confirm the contents: license, social and $220.” Corbin waited for Beckett to open the wallet and confirm the contents. “Hand him the wallet. Grab the cell phone with the same colored sticker as the plastic bag. Hand him that as well.”
“Ok.”
“When he returns, take the bank paperwork, the lease, the utility bill, and the wallet and return them to the same plastic bag. Seal the plastic bag and return it to the duffel bag. Put the phone back into the phone bag. Then move on to the next bank and repeat.”
“I can see why you didn’t want Nobody worrying about this at the same time he’s going into the banks.”
“Don’t worry, it’s a lot easier than it sounds. Just follow the color coding and you can’t go wrong. We did a practice run last week and it turned out to be really simple. The key to everything is to make sure you only work with one bag at a time. Never open a bag until all the other bags are closed.”
“Got it.”
“That’s all there is,” Corbin said.
“One more thing. How do I recognize Nobody when I see him?”
“How about a password?”
Beckett looked stunned. “I am not walking around a train station asking people if they use polar bear shit to fertilize their lawns.”
“Darn, there goes plan A.”
Beckett stared at Corbin, trying to determine if he was serious.
Suddenly, Corbin burst into laughter. “I’m just kidding. I bought train tickets for both of you. You’ll be sitting directly across from each other.”
That night Corbin sat in the middle of his floor surrounded by wallets, colored stickers, plastic bags, and stacks of twenty dollar bills. His phone rang. He knew it was Alvarez because Alvarez called every night this week.
“Vez.”
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done with the packets.” Corbin counted out another eleven twenties.
“How’s Beckett?”
“He’s nervous, but seems ok. What about you?”
“Good enough, but I want to get this going. I hate waiting.”
“One more day,” Corbin said, as he stuffed the twenties into a brown leather wallet.
“You figured out yet what you’re going to do with your share?”
Corbin set the wallet down and scratched his chin. “No, not really. I figure something will come to me.”
Alvarez laughed. “If you decide you don’t want it, your old friend Alvarez will be more than happy to take it off your hands.”
“I’m sure.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”
“Is that how Websters defines friendship?”
“I think I read that, yeah. Are you still planning to stay at the lousy job?”
“That’s part of the plan. I need to stick around at least one year so I can keep an eye on the people in the office. They’re our coal-mine canaries; they’ll be the first to know if the cops start investigating.”
“Better you than me.”
“I knew I could count on you for sympathy,” Corbin chuckled.
“If you want sympathy, you know where to find it.”
“Yeah, between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.”
“You know what you should do to pass the time?”
“What?” Corbin asked dubiously.
“You should hook up with that Mary girl you told me about.”
“You mean Molly?”
“Sure, Molly, the younger one. She sounds like a wild ride.”
Corbin rolled his eyes. “Let’s move on shall we.”
“It’s just a suggestion.”
“It’s a disastrous suggestion. Do you know who Tantalus is?”
“Didn’t he fight Godzilla?”
“No. Greek mythology. He was punished for stealing ambrosia from the gods and bringing it back to his people.
His punishment was to stand in a pool of water below a fruit tree. Whenever he reached for the fruit, the branches raised beyond his reach. When he bent to drink, the water receded away before him. Thus, his fate was to be tempted without ever achieving satisfaction. Hence, the word ‘tantalize.’ That’s Molly. She wants you to chase, but she’ll always be out of reach.”
“Do you categorize all women according to Greek mythological punishments?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
Alvarez laughed.
“Don’t get me wrong. She’s a fun girl, but she’s only interested in being pursued. She has no desire to be caught.”
“What about the other one, the older one?”
“Listen, I gotta go. I need to finish these packets,” Corbin said, dodging the question.
Alvarez laughed again. “All right. Let’s meet tomorrow and go over the maps one more time.”
“No problem.”
When Corbin hung up the phone, he heard his doorbell ring. Looking through the viewer, he saw Mrs. Tuttle’s white hair. “Mrs. Tuttle, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Alex, just fine.” As Corbin opened the door, Mrs. Tuttle pushed passed him into the apartment. She was carrying a large silver pot. “I made soup and I wanted to bring you some. It’s chicken noodle. I know how much you like my chicken noodle.”
“That I do, Mrs. Tuttle.”
“Besides, you’re all by yourself over here.” Mrs. Tuttle set the pot on Corbin’s countertop. As she did, she noticed the assortment of wallets, bags, papers and twenties spread across the floor. “Work keeping you busy?”
“You know the way things are, Mrs. Tuttle, their time is their time and your time is their time too.”
“It’s always been that way, Alex. Mr. Tuttle used to say the same thing when he worked for NASA. Did I ever tell you that we lived in Florida when they sent Mr. Aldrin to the moon?”
For the next ten minutes, Mrs. Tuttle regaled Corbin with stories of the places she and Mr. Tuttle had lived and the things they had done. Finally, Mrs. Tuttle returned to her own apartment, leaving Corbin to return to his packets.
It was obvious the moment Beckett stepped through the office door that his nerves had suffered a relapse. Corbin set down his book and prepared for the fight he knew was coming. He suspected for several days that Beckett would need to be shored up one last time because Beckett seemed increasingly more nervous lately. To Corbin’s surprise however, Beckett didn’t launch into a tirade. Instead, he sat at his desk, tapping his thumb against a notebook as he stared at the wall.