Reboot

by Alan Mulak

  At nine, Mike, following Marcy’s directions, wore a hoodie to hide his face from the security camera, hit the buzzer, didn’t look up at the camera, and when the lock buzzed, walked through the door. Marcy's door opened, and he went in.

  Her apartment was cramped, the furniture second-hand and threadbare. A few table lamps with yellowed shades cast a dim glow. The smell of cooked cabbage wafted in from the kitchen, and in the corner, a sky-blue parrot peered out of a cage, repeatedly asking jak się masz?

  “What’s he saying?”

  Marcy took his coat. “That’s ‘how are you?’ in Polish. If you are okay, say ‘dobrze.’”

  Mike walked over to the cage and said, “dobrze.”

  The parrot became animated, hopping from perch to cage and back again, squawking, “Well good for you…awk…well good for you.”

  Marcy shrugged. “That’s the whole show. Come on, let’s get started.”

  She led Mike to a back bedroom, where on a table against the wall, sat three computer monitors. The one in the middle was glowing. She pointed to a chair for Mike, rolled one over for herself, and sat down, tapping keys. The screen acknowledged, and after a few seconds, a blinking prompt appeared.

  “Okay,” Marcy said. “Company name?”

  “Foggy Morning Fly Shop, Livingston, Montana.”

  Marcy typed. “Okay,” she said, “We’re in. What are you looking for?”

  “Invoices.”

  “From when?”

  Mike pursed his lips. “What’s today’s date?”

  “Twenty, September.”

  “Okay, from today back a month or so.”

  Marcy began typing, muttering, “Computers just love commands like or so. I’ll go back one month.”

  After a few seconds, the line 2103 items meet search criteria popped up.

  Mike whistled. “Two thousand, one hundred and three? Wow! That’s way more business than I thought they’d be doing. Shit.”

  Marcy said, “Clearly, we need to refine the search. What would be unique to the invoice we’re looking for?”

  After a minute, Mike snapped his fingers. “Got it! Search for the following…”

  Marcy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

  “First line…Sculpin Minnow. Second line…Weighted Yellow Marabou Muddler. Third line…Whitlock Hopper.”

  Marcy typed – adding a ‘**' between each item and then hit enter. "What kind of code is this?" she asked.

  “Code? That is no code. Those are trout flies and Rob…I mean the person I'm looking for…always uses these for fall fishing, and he's the only guy I know who does."

  After a few seconds, the line 1 item meets your refined search criteria appeared on the screen. Mike felt his mouth go dry. Marcy turned to him, and said, “Well?”

  Mike took a deep breath. “Do it.”

  Marcy hit the enter key, and an invoice filled the screen. She maneuvered the document such that the ‘send to’ name and address was in the center. It read:

  Send to: Mr. Alex Delvecchio

  PO 3116

  Dolores, Colorado 81323

  Mike leaned back in his chair and whispered, “Bingo.”

  10

  The Tax Man Cometh

  At ten A.M., two days before third quarter taxes were due on September 15, Alex and Neil sat down together at the Brewery’s outdoor patio. Neil had brewed a pot of coffee, and both men settled down at a sunny table alongside cultivated hops plants that covered the fence. Alex placed his laptop and a thick manila folder on the table. “I have some good news for you.”

  “Good news is always welcome here.”

  “First, I’ve prepared your third quarter taxes online. I printed out the signature page. Before we leave, sign it, and then I'll scan in your signature and e-file your taxes."

  Neil sat back in his chair. “Wow, that’s easy. Thanks! Now for the bad news: how much do I owe?”

  Alex opened his laptop and turned it on. "Owe? Nothing. Zero. And that brings us to our next topic…”

  “Nothing? I always owe something. What did…?”

  Alex held up his hand. “Wait. Hear me out. Do you remember me asking you about tax software and you said you used TurboTax? Well, TurboTax Small Business is fine but not for restaurants. It simply doesn’t ask the right questions. I bought QuickBooks for Business and reran your tax returns for the last three years. Do you remember buying all the stainless brew tanks from the U.K.? You deducted the cost, but not transportation, set up, training, maintenance, supplies, etc. You didn’t do anything wrong, TurboTax simply didn’t ask the right questions. Same with the new tap system, same with your truck, and same with the baking kiln. Altogether, I found almost one-hundred line items you never claimed.”

  Neil mumbled, “I hate doing taxes.”

  “So do most folks,” Alex replied. “That is, except me. I enjoy the challenge. Now, on the assumption you have no stomach to go over deduction by deduction, I went ahead and printed out the signature pages for your most recent tax filings.” He took out three sheets of paper and spread them out on the table in front of Neil. “You will need to sign here, here, and here.”

  As Neil did so, he asked, “Will I be getting anything back?”

  Alex rounded up the three signature pages and slid them into a manila envelope. “Yep. Just over ninety-one thousand.”

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding me. Ninety-one Thousand?”

  "And change," Alex said. “Now here’s what I recommend you do. Let me file on your behalf and put all the return towards future taxes. This way you will get at least the next five quarters without paying any taxes, starting tomorrow.”

  Neil scratched his beard. Clearly, the idea of a check for $91K sounded good. “How will the IRS take this news?”

  Alex leaned into the table and said, “The IRS really likes it when the taxpayer – that’s you – gives them an interest-free loan. On the other hand, they get grumpy when they have to fork over $91K. And if they get grumpy, they can ask lots of questions that can delay the process for a long, long, time. And since you’re not going to be paying any taxes anytime soon, you can sink some cash into upgrading your business, which may increase profits and cash flow. Get it?”

  Neil sipped his coffee and digested the news. After a while, he said, “Okay, let’s do it. The idea of not paying taxes is pretty damn appealing.”

  Alex smiled. “Good decision.” He gathered up the forms and prepared to leave.

  Neil asked, “What do I owe you? This is clearly worth a boat-load to me.”

  “Well,” Alex replied. “I suppose you can pay for the QuickBooks Premiere software I bought. That was three bills. I’ll get you the receipt.”

  “Hold on. I owe you more than that!”

  “Well then, how about next summer, me and you take a float down the Gunnison River. I hear Black Canyon is full of trout.”

  Neil got up, and the men shook hands. “That’s a date.”

  As Alex turned to go, Neil said, “And by the way, I found out about Donna. The ex lives back east somewhere. I think you are safe.”

  Alex laughed. “Too late. I decided to find out for myself. And by the way - you and Lucy win the pool.”

  11

  Two Unconnected Jolts

  If the summer drought is not severe, Colorado trout fishing in September can be utterly delightful. The days are sunny, but the early autumn air is cool. Any pesky bugs are long gone, and most other fishermen have put away their rods, looking forward to hunting season. For the serious fly fisherman, this is about as good as it gets.

  Alex was driving up Colorado State Route 145 - which parallels the Upper Dolores River - humming softly, thinking about how he could approach the Naked Lady Pool without spooking the trout. The Naked Lady pool was about the size of a hockey rink. It was created by the swift water tumbling over a sandstone ledge, gouging out a deep hole, and calming down to a moderate flow of flat, foam-covered water. The deeper areas held trout as long as a man's arm. The p
roblem with this pool was getting to the trout without spooking them. These were smart old fish that did not get that big by being stupid. The relatively smooth surface water allowed the fish to spot approaching danger long before it arrived, and then dive for the inky-black depths, never to be seen again for the rest of the day. Approaching the pool had to be an exercise in stealth and patience – moving slowly and quietly – like a Great Blue Heron. And to make it more challenging, there were shadows and the bright sun to contend with. All in all, an intriguing puzzle.

  The Naked Lady Pool - a secret code name known only to Alex - was so dubbed due to the occasional appearance of a woman who mysteriously emerged from the forest on the far side of the river, stripped, then waded in for a dip. After swimming around for a few minutes, she crawled out onto the sandstone ledge, lay in the sunshine long enough to dry one side, then the other, dressed, and then disappeared the way she came. Alex had observed this routine twice in the last few months. The head-scratcher about this phenomenon was the fact that this section of the river was Jefferson National Forest land. There were no houses and few roads on the far side. Where did she come from? Last time, after she left, he waded across to investigate. There was a path leading up to a dirt trail, where he found fresh bike tracks. Apparently, she would ride her bicycle to the head of the path with the sole purpose of enjoying a dip in the river. But from where?

  The two times he had seen her – never close enough to venture a guess at age – Alex had been well downstream, perhaps a football field away. Had she see him downriver but figured what the hell? Had she ever shown up when he was fishing in the pool but upon spotting Alex, turned around and left? Had she remained hidden in the woods and watched him? Or perhaps, if they had arrived simultaneously, would she have gone ahead with her skinny dip and provided a show regardless of the fly fisherman standing in the water? Would she invite Alex to remove his waders and join her? Was she old and gray? Young and voluptuous? Old and voluptuous? Would it matter? These were fun questions to ponder.

  Route 145 offered few places to pull a vehicle off the road and go fishing. The only one for miles – Alex's favorite – was just ahead. He put on his directional and glanced in the rearview mirror: blue lights

  Just as a light switch plunges a brightly lit room into total darkness, so went Alex's demeanor. One moment, he was humming contentedly, dreaming of naked women, and in the next instant, he was filled with raw terror. Houdini's words came flooding back: You do not want to be stopped. And yet, there they were: blue lights in his rearview mirror.

  Alex pulled off the road, and the Colorado State Police Cruiser pulled off behind him. Taking a deep breath, Alex got out of his truck. The police officer was doing the same. Alex waved weakly and said, "Hello. What's the problem?" He could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

  The policeman, a massive hulk of a man with close-cropped hair and aviator sunglasses, approached. “May I see your license and registration?”

  Hands shaking, Alex fumbled around in the glove box, and then, at last, located the paperwork.

  The policeman looked from license to registration, to Alex’s face, then back again. Finally, he handed them back and pointed at the truck. “Driver side tail light is out.”

  “Huh,” Alex said. “Didn’t know that. I’ll get it fixed today.” Suddenly Alex felt nauseous and weak-kneed. He held onto the side of the truck to keep from toppling over. The policeman took no notice. He was looking at Alex’s fishing gear in the truck bed.

  “Going fishing?” he asked with the same matter-of-factness.

  Alex nodded. That was about all he could do.

  “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

  Alex shook his head slowly. “Dizzy all of a sudden.” He was about to vomit or faint, or both.

  The policemen lowered the truck tailgate and took Alex by the arm, leading him around back and sitting him down. “Take a seat. Check out your fingernails.”

  Alex did so – they were pale white instead of the usual pink.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Alex shook his head no, still studying his nails.

  “Altitude,” the policeman said, matter-a-factly. “You’re at about nine-thousand feet here. Lots of flatlanders get queasy up here. Lack of oxygen. Just sit quietly. It'll pass."

  Alex did so, head swimming.

  “Look,” the policeman said. “I’ve got to head up the highway to Telluride, but I’ll be back in about an hour. If you don’t feel any better, stay where you are, and drink some water. I’ll pick you up on my way back and take you to Cortez Hospital. But I think you’ll be fine. Just stay quiet for a few minutes.”

  Alex nodded slowly. The policeman turned, walked back to his cruiser, and then drove off.

  Doing as he was told, Alex sat still for a minute or so, massaging the back of his neck. Then, with a sense of immediacy, his lower bowels sent an urgent message to his brain: get into the woods, quick! Alex got to his feet but still felt dizzy. “Great,” he mumbled. “I’m either going to puke, collapse, or shit my pants. Great, just God damn great.”

  Later that day, Alex sat on his living room couch, television droning on, primarily to fill the silence. Most of the time, he did not hear a word. The encounter with the Colorado State Police had left him shaken. He was sipping a glass of whiskey, trying to calm down. What bothered Alex was just how thoroughly he had come unglued. Why did I go to pieces? Am I holding in mega-anxiety, just waiting to meltdown? Have I begun to slip into a false sense of security? Or was this just a wake-up call, re-emphasizing the need to lay low?

  It was something on the TV national news broadcast that snapped him out of his daze.

  The scene was the steps of the District Courthouse in Lowell, Massachusetts, where a gang of reporters had gathered. They were mobbing a small group of people emerging from inside. Leading the way was a tall, obese man in a wrinkled suit, carrying a briefcase, pushing aside the reporters. In tow, also fighting off reporters, were a woman and two young women. Alex could not believe what he was seeing: it was his wife Nicole and his two evil daughters, Danielle and Amy.

  The huge man was shouting, “MY CLIENTS HAVE NO COMMENT! MY CLIENTS HAVE NO COMMENT!” Danielle, as she passed the television camera, raised her middle figure in an obscene gesture for the TV world to see. They eventually reached a waiting car and were whisked away. A woman reporter came onto the screen.

  “The preliminary hearing has just been completed here in Lowell, Massachusetts where two minors, daughters of Nicole Santos of Carlisle, have been charged with attempted murder. Bringing those charges are the Massachusetts State Attorney General and legal counsel for Phillips Andover Academy, a prestigious, private school which the two minors were attending before their expulsion earlier this year.”

  The TV screen split – the reporter from Lowell on one side, a talking head from FOX News studios on the other. The talking head asked, “Hello, Jane, this is Rick Marshall from FOX. Why is this case warranting national coverage?”

  The woman reporter, microphone held to her face like a lollipop, nodded. “Great question, Rick. The accused, two minors, allegedly bullied a fellow student into attempting to take her own life. Bullying has been a sensitive topic for quite some time now, but school officials are at a loss as to what to do, even in cases such as this where the target was allegedly driven to the brink of suicide. What happens here in State District Court in Massachusetts may set a precedent for future such cases. Most officials associated with this case feel this one will almost certainly go into Federal Court, and perhaps make its way to the Supreme Court. For more on the topic, let’s switch to Brooklyn New York where one of my associates, Pam Houghton, has caught up with an expert on the topic. Pam?”

  The scene changed again, this time to an office setting, where on one side of a table sat a roundish, balding man, white shirt opened at the collar, hands folded and resting on a pile of papers on the table. Seated across from him was a serious looking woman of about forty, long
dark hair, dark features. Bookcases lined the walls behind them.

  “Thank you, Jane,” Pam said, looking into the camera. “We are here today in the Office of the Superintendent of the Brooklyn Public Schools. Seated with me is Doctor Martin T. Stanaslovich, educational consultant to BPS and renowned expert on this topic. Thanks for being with us Doctor Stana…Stanasl…”

  The man smiled. “Call me Martin. It’s much easier.”

  “Thank you,” Pam said, smiling for the first time. “Thanks for being with us today Martin. Can you give us some insight as to what’s happening up in Lowell, Massachusetts?”

  “Yes I can,” Martin began. “First, let me offer this opinion: it’s about time. As a school principal, superintendent, and now as an educational consultant, I have in some instances, personally witnessed numerous situations of cruel bullying, and took decisive action. In every case, that is in each and every case, the parents of the bullies came after me, threatening lawsuits and accusing me of attacking their poor, defenseless angel of a child. Further, the target, the child who has been bullied, is given little in the way of protection or justice and often is forced to withdraw from school and go elsewhere. It is a classic case of the victim, who has had their civil rights violated, having to slink away while the bullies are protected their by hovering parents. I hope this case will begin to set down some legal guidelines to address this type of common but inexcusable behavior.”

  Pam nodded gravely. “I see. So what do you see the next steps will be in the drama?”

  “First,” Martin replied, “you have to define the term bullying. Everyone agrees that bullying is unacceptable, but there are many, many ideas as to exactly what bullying is. And since the public and private schools are the mandated reporters and surrogate police in these cases – once again getting saddled with a mess left by inept parents – the school officials will need clear direction from the courts, as well as the ability to act swiftly and decisively. As to the latter, I am referring to expulsions and criminal charges. The law must back up the school administrators, providing them with concise instructions, while keeping the irresponsible parents at bay."