by Cleo Coyle
“Eric told me I’d see sliding boards here, but I thought it was a metaphor.”
“When work is fun, we want to do it,” Garth declared, “seven days a week, if we can . . .”
So it’s a “fun” sweatshop.
“Eric’s people do work hard, but we help them make it feel like play.”
“I see . . .” No time for a personal life, but that’s okay, you have a sliding board.
Putting Metis Man’s philosophies aside, I began to wonder which one of these hard workers would benefit most if Eric were out of the picture. And if he were out of the picture, then who could do Eric’s job? The Metis Man? Garth Hendricks could lead a company, but he wasn’t a programmer.
Eric’s sister Eden shouldered leadership responsibilities, but they were organizational. Did she have the technical knowledge to effectively steer a digital company?
At a dead end, I simply asked Garth. His reply . . .
“Minnow could do it. She’s Eric in distaff.”
“Minnow?”
“Wilhelmina Tork. She’s close to Eric, one of the original founders of the company. And Minnow already heads the Game Development Division, which was Thorner’s old job. Now that he’s a corporate officer, Eric can’t do everything, so before we moved East, he promoted Ms. Tork.”
I scanned the crowd. “Where can I find Minnow?”
“In her office on the tenth floor.”
“She’s not attending the party?”
“Minnow is not a party person.” He lowered his voice. “A high IQ combined with anger issues.”
“I have a barista with a mild case of the same, but I love her dearly.”
The Metis Man nodded approvingly. “Understanding goes a long way in this world. Understanding inspires tolerance, and an open mind is a creative mind.”
Applause interrupted him. “I’d better get back to my kids.”
“First, could you point the way to the elevators?” I asked. “Or should I just climb the sliding board?”
Fifty-seven
THE elevator opened and once again I came face-to-face with the Unisex Twins.
The pair perked up when they saw me. “Oh, hi!” they chirped in (yes) unison.
“Hello.”
They exited the elevator, flanking me the way my cats do when they’re hungry. Two pairs of big, brown eyes gazed at me expectantly. I eased past them, into the elevator.
“Bye,” I said.
“See you later!” they peeped, waving to me as the elevator closed.
Okay, that was creepy.
I turned my attention to the layout of the tenth floor, a huge open space filled with natural light. Crossing the restored old planks, I passed a dozen workstations with state-of-the-art computers. The only “office” on this floor was more of a large cubicle, situated in a corner beside the massive window.
As I approached, I heard the tapping of keys. The view overlooking Madison Square Park was spectacular, but the woman behind the desk only had eyes for the data dancing across four huge LED screens.
I knocked on the partition.
She whirled in her chair and appeared startled at the sight of me. Slowly she slid her chunky, black glasses down. Her blue violet eyes were as vibrant as Madame’s and they were staring 3-D daggers at me.
“What do you want?”
“Sorry. I’m looking for Wilhelmina Tork?”
“Minnow.”
“Yes, I’m looking for Minnow.”
She sighed with annoyance. “My name is Minnow.”
“Hello,” I said, stepping inside. “I’m Clare—”
“I know who you are.”
Uninvited, I sat down. “Then you know I’m a friend of Eric’s.”
Her frown deepened and her eyes dropped to a desk littered with little toys and figurines. I recognized Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas, and an array of resin dragons, but the rest of the characters (Anime? Comic book? Video game?) eluded me—with one exception. I recognized a plastic Alice in Wonderland, dressed in iconic Disney garb, but there was no White Rabbit, no Cheshire Cat, and this Alice grinned like a psychopath and clutched a bloody knife.
“Garth tells me you were with Eric’s company from the beginning. I also heard you’ve been promoted.”
She looked up then, and I realized that hidden behind the heavy, black eyewear, Minnow was striking. With a triangular face and delicate features, her pale, flawless skin made for a stunning contrast to her raven black hair—a tangled, frizzy riot that could have doubled as a wig for Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna (an ancient, cultural reference for Minnow’s generation—although they could Google it).
Frowning, Minnow reached for a bone gray disposable cup from Driftwood Coffee and smugly waved my competitor’s logo in front of me like it was Kryptonite and I was Superman (at last, a reference both our generations would get).
Taking a long gulp, she drained the contents.
“You could get a refill at the party,” I suggested. “We’re serving an Almond Joy Latte with homemade Coconut-Chocolate-Almond Syrup. There’s a Reese’s Cup Latte, too; we make it with our own Chocolate–Peanut Butter Nutella. And if you prefer dairy-free—”
“I only drink lattes from Driftwood Coffee,” she sniffed.
“How about something to relax you?” (You look like you can use it.) “I can pour you a very pretty Cloudy Dream or how about a Hazelnut Orgasm?”
“What are they?”
“Pousse-cafés—delicious layered drinks with tasty liqueurs, the kind usually served with after-dinner coffee.”
She actually look tempted for a moment but then shook her head and tugged at the hem of her baggy tee. “I’m very busy, Clare. Could you please get down to business?”
“I understand THORN, Inc., is rolling out a new game in June—”
“At E3.”
“ET?”
“E-Three, Clare. The Electronic Entertainment Expo. It’s the annual industry showcase where new digital games and devices are introduced.”
“And your THORN app is going head-to-head with Grayson Braddock’s rollout of a similar game, right?”
Minnow smiled. “Kind of.”
I blinked. “Could you please elaborate?”
She shrugged. “Two years ago, Eric picked up an advanced reading copy of Dragon Whisperer at Book Expo. As soon as he read it, he knew the novel would be hot. Eric’s a genius about things like that.”
Wow, a first. Minnow had briefly shed her disdainful tone when she spoke about Eric.
“I know the book,” I said. Practically overnight, Dragon Whisperer had made dragons more popular than sexy vampires, walking zombies, comic book superheroes, and boy-wonder wizards.
“Yes, but there was a massive problem. Grayson Braddock controlled the licensing for Dragon Whisperer through his publishing division. Eric had us develop the game before he secured the rights to the dragons, characters, and storylines. He was sure Braddock would be thrilled with our prototype and instantly grant our request for rights. But when the idea was presented to Braddock, the Aussie shut us down.”
From what I knew already, the conclusion seemed clear. “After Braddock saw what you developed, he decided he could create a game on his own, and keep all the profits?”
Minnow nodded. “But he can’t. Braddock doesn’t have the platform to launch an app game; he’s never done it before.”
“What if he hired Donny Chu?”
“Donny has the skill to build a game, but sell it?” Minnow shook her head. “You need a genius like Eric for that.”
There’s that word again. Minnow was clearly impressed with her boss.
“We have Pigeon Droppings,” Minnow continued. “Which means we own a chunk of the market already, and we can use that popular and established game to launch a new one. You see? Get it now?”
“Yes. And I assume, because Braddock wouldn’t sell Eric the gaming rights, Eric changed Dragon Whisperer to Slayer, and used generic dragons and hero
es to get around Braddock’s copyright?”
“That’s right,” Minnow replied—this time with a tad less attitude. “We’re going to beat Braddock, too. I think even he knows it. Better yet, my teams are creating residual and satellite apps using the same designs, the same programs. A Slayer Training Manual app. A Field Guide to Dragons app. We’ll be selling add-ons and extras before Braddock even gets his lame-o Dragon Whisperer app off the ground. Before you know it, Eric will have the movie rights sold to our dragon characters—”
The phone on Minnow’s desk rattled. Instead of lifting the receiver, she punched a button. “This is Minnow.”
“Garth here,” a disembodied voice said. “Is Clare Cosi with you?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Clare,” Garth continued, “the Junior Rocketeers are setting up for your demonstration.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“Oh, Minnow,” Garth added. “I just wanted to tell you the light sculpture program on the Spectrum Digitizer is beautiful. You should come down and see it.”
“I’ve seen enough of it! I installed the Digitizer myself and fine-tuned the program all night. The ninja ain’t beautiful, Garth. He’s still too herky-jerky.”
I rose. “I’d like to speak with you again, Minnow, if that’s possible.”
The girl swung her chair away from me.
“Sure,” she said, facing her four computer monitors. “But next time, make an appointment.”
Fifty-eight
WAITING for the busy elevators took several minutes, but I absolutely refused to ride the sliding board to the second floor. When I finally arrived, the setup for my Italian donut demonstration was well under way.
The scent of hot oil from the portable deep fryer filled the second-floor gallery, attracting an eager crowd.
“Hey, boss, glad you’re here,” Esther said, handing me an apron. “Casey and Sunshine would like a word with you.”
“Did you just say K.C. and Sunshine?”
“Our parents’ favorite band,” Casey said.
Esther gestured to the Unisex Twins, who gaped at me with wide grins.
“Hello again,” they warbled.
“Hello back,” I said.
“We were wondering if you could come here tomorrow, Ms. Cosi?” Casey asked.
“Early,” Sunshine added. “Very early, before anyone else comes in. That way—”
“The office is empty,” Casey said, jumping in. “We could grab a conference room before the other teams get in—”
“And really get a head start on our work,” Sunshine finished with a giggle.
“Our work? Our work on what?” I asked, my skin prickling again.
The pair glanced at each other, then at me. They seemed unsure how to answer.
“Boss?” Esther tapped an imaginary wristwatch. “It’s time.”
“Look,” I told Casey and Sunshine, “I’ll talk to you after the demonstration, and you can tell me all about this ‘work’ that we’re supposed to do together, okay?”
“Great!” Casey cheeped, smiling again. “Can’t wait—”
“To talk later—”
“Byeee.”
“Listening to those two is like watching a tennis tournament.” Esther rubbed her neck. “I think I got whiplash.”
I slipped behind the fryer and checked the temperature with a candy thermometer. “Where’s the dough?”
“Tuck went to the refrigerator to get it.”
The oil was the perfect temperature. Beside the portable fryer, a metal table had been set up to hold the dough, the frying net, the powdered sugar, and plenty of paper serving plates.
While we waited for Tuck, I ran the talk through my head. I’d start by mentioning the many culinary cultures that enjoy fried dough sweetened with powdered sugar, honey, or glazes—Croatia’s krofne, for example, or Germany’s Berliner. The Italians traditionally make a heavy filled donut called a zeppole, but my nonna’s recipe box provided me with a unique treat—a sweet version of a savory fried dough, which more closely resembles the hot, fresh beignets of New Orleans’s French Quarter.
“Here I come,” Tuck cried, parting the crowd.
He carried a covered tray laden with yeasted dough.
“I hope the dough didn’t get warm,” I said.
“It’s chilled, CC,” Tuck replied. “Cold enough to give me freezer burn.”
“Let me take that before you drop it, Broadway Boy,” Esther said, snatching the tray.
As Tuck moved closer, his right leg touched the metal table leg. The bright, white yellow explosion shocked us all. Sparks flew and an impossibly loud crackle ripped the air. Repelled by the electric charge, Tuck flew backward, sailing ten feet before he crashed to the ground. One of the wide-screen monitors fell over and shorted out, creating more sparks.
People screamed and backed off, but some rushed forward to help. I was there first.
“Tucker!” I screamed.
“Don’t touch the table, it’s electrified,” I heard Metis Man warn.
Crumpled on the floor, my barista looked like a broken toy. The fallen LED monitor crackled beside him.
I smelled smoke over the stench of ozone, and realized Tuck’s pant leg was smoldering. I ripped off my apron and smothered the blaze, afraid to use water in case there were more live wires around.
Esther joined me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Come on, Tuck,” she whispered as we turned him on his back.
“Talk to me,” I begged.
But Tucker Burton wasn’t moving—and he wasn’t breathing.
Fifty-nine
ESTHER and I spent three harrowing hours at the Beth Israel Medical Center waiting room without hearing a word about Tucker’s condition.
In the minutes after the accident, Garth Hendricks and I performed CPR. Miracle of miracles, Tuck responded. His eyes fluttered and he seemed to be breathing by the time the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance.
Esther and I followed in a cab. We reached out to Punch, Tuck’s significant other. Now the compact, muscular man sobbed on Esther’s shoulders, praying for Tuck in English and Spanish.
I was about ready to smash through the glass partition and take a nurse hostage when someone called my name.
It was Dr. Hosseni, an East Indian man with a thick mustache and a confident demeanor. He didn’t wait to deliver the good news.
“Mr. Burton will be fine.”
“Oh thank you God! Madre Dios!” Punch cried.
“Ditto,” Esther said.
“He was very lucky it was his leg that touched the electrified table,” the doctor explained. “The charge ran from his calf to his foot. Had Mr. Burton touched that cart with his hands, the charge would have run up his arms and into his heart, stopping it. Your friend was very nearly electrocuted.”
“When can we see him, Doctor?” I asked.
“Now is fine. You may go through that door, and the nurse will guide you to Mr. Burton.”
Esther, Punch, and I followed the woman to Tucker’s bedside. Frankly, I expected the worst: intravenous tubes sticking out of every arm, an oxygen mask, beeping medical devices, and a near-comatose Tucker.
Instead my assistant manager was wide awake and sitting up! He greeted us with a big grin and open arms.
Punch leapt onto the bed and clung to Tuck. When they finally broke their embrace it was Esther’s and my turn for hugs. Tuck reassured us that he felt fine and expected to be discharged in the morning.
“Some minor burns, and I twisted my leg. But none of that matters. I’m just happy to be alive.”
Tuck showed Punch the bandages on his calf.
“Madre Dios!” his partner cried.
“Relax,” Tuck said, patting Punch’s hand. “I’ve had worse things happen on stage. When I was in an all-male version of Macbeth at the East Hampton’s Summer Stock Theater, a spear carrier set me on fire!”
The relief I felt was mixed with anger. “I don’t care what you say, Tuck. T
his is serious!”
“Don’t get your voltage up, CC, I’m fine.”
“Only because of dumb luck. You touched that cart with your leg. But if you had touched it with your hands, you would have been killed. Someone is responsible for putting you here—and I’m going to find out who!”
*
AFTER leaving Tuck’s hospital room, I went right back to THORN, Inc. As I approached Eden Thorner’s office, she motioned me forward, holding a wireless phone to her ear.
When her brother had converted this old toy factory, he’d removed a section of the roof so the top-floor executives would have natural light. But on this winter evening, the light was gone early, the moonless sky above sooty gray. Now the room’s only illumination came from unnatural light—computer terminals, workstation lamps, blinking gadgets.
Tuck’s near-death experience had set me on edge; the eerie lighting only made it worse.
Eden directed me to a chair and sank into her own. After ending her call, she rubbed tired eyes and met mine.
“I had to beg OSHA not to shut our office down for six months while they conduct a federal inspection for workplace safety. Fortunately I know the director. We shot wolves together in Wyoming.”
“You shot wolves!”
“With tranquilizer guns. We were tagging the wolves, Clare. Putting Eric’s GPS chips on them helps the Wyoming Wildlife Preservation Society track migration patterns—”
Oh, that’s right. Eric had mentioned something about Eden tagging wolves. But he hadn’t mentioned his GPS chips—and that’s when I knew: The Metis Man had found me and Joy in Montmartre, seemingly by magic. But it wasn’t magic. Eric’s GPS chips were installed in his THORN phones; I was sure of it, which meant he could track anyone with his phones, practically anywhere.
“Anyway,” Eden continued. “I assume Dr. Hosseni gave you the good news.”
“You know Dr. Hosseni?”
“He’s my personal physician. I wanted your barista to have the very best care. The doctor tells me Mr. Burton will be up and around in a day or two.”