by Linden Storm
“Those places are an abomination. Paying a sleazy company to keep people locked up,” Harold says. “In my day—"
“—I don’t disagree, Harold. Probably unconstitutional, too, if our lazy Supreme Court ever deigned to hear the case.”
Rupert pulls a pair of smartglasses out of his pocket.
“The latest SpigotSpecs?” Harold says.
“They’re not even on the market yet,” Rupert says.
“I rented some once.”
“These are light years better,” Rupert says. “They can do anything.”
Rupert waves his hands around in front of his face.
“I'm looking at Beatty, Nevada, right now, and it is one ugly place,” Rupert says. Dirt, rocks, decrepit bars and casinos, decrepit trailer parks, decrepit dogs and cats. The jail looks like an old big-box store.”
“Used to be a K-Mart,” Harold says. “Before Amazon and the drone army put most of the superstores out of business.”
∆∆∆
The car parks. Harold grabs his backpack from the trunk and follows Rupert in to the General Aviation Terminal at Boeing Field.
The breathtakingly beautiful woman at the desk is wearing a uniform and a big, bubblegum-pink smile.
“Mr. Jones,” she says. “Your jet is ready.”
Out on the tarmac, a medium-sized jet waits with its stairs folded down. Harold waves at the pilot, who nods and continues inspecting the jet.
“Thanks, Helen,” Rupert says. “You’ve got my catering order.”
“Absolutely,” Helen says, in Spanish-accented English. “It’s loaded already.”
Rupert flashes her a thumbs-up. She grins.
“Come on, Harold, let’s go,” Rupert says, as he heads out the door.
“Uh, I need the little boy’s room,” Harold says.
“There’s a big-boy’s toilet on the Citation, Harold,” Rupert says. “It’s better than the one in the terminal. Trust me.”
Harold shrugs and follows Rupert to the plane and climbs up.
Inside, the plane is set up like a tycoon’s fancy living room—which is what it is, Harold thinks. Rupert’s living room in the sky. Leather sofas, mahogany side tables, a gleaming dining table and padded chairs.
The pilot, a middle-aged man, and the co-pilot, a young woman who reminds Harold of his wife Meta in her youth, greet Rupert and take their seats, flipping switches, palming wheels, adjusting levers, and twirling knobs.
Harold uses the bathroom in the back, next to the fluffy bed made up with seafoam-colored linens and pillows.
The bathroom is indeed accommodating. It has a shower and rows of lotions and soaps that Harold sniffs, one at a time. He detects sea wind, pikake, and coconut. There’s a heated toilet seat that sprays Harold’s nether regions with warm water.
“It’s nice, all right,” Harold says, when he joins Rupert again. “Though I’m not sure I want my buttocks scented with pine needles and mint.”
“It’s adjustable,” Rupert says. “Next time try rose petals.”
Rupert goes back to the world in his HUD. He’s swiping and pointing and stabbing at the air like a demented orchestra maestro.
“What’re you doing?” Harold says.
“Preventing Jason from taking over my company,” Rupert says.
“Oh, go ahead, then, please,” Harold says. “That guy is a prize jackass.”
The co-pilot comes out to make sure they’re cinched into seat belts.
She introduces herself as Kirsten. She’s white-blonde and pink-cheeked, with wide, beautiful hips and an impressive bust line that almost touches Harold’s shoulder when she tugs on his seat belt to make sure it’s snug.
Harold feels his face flush. Meta had been sick a long time, and that one date he did go on with the winemaker in Dayton had been a disaster. Harold has thought it through and he understands now that Carrie—the winemaker—is just enough younger than him that she’s immune to sexual shame for being frank or even aggressive. She'd said she was a grownup sexual being. But it had spooked Harold terribly when she’d offered to perform a sex act in his car in lieu of a goodnight kiss. He hadn’t tried dating since then and he’d become afraid of it. Let the young people have that, he thinks. I’ve got better things to do.
Like save Nick and the team.
Besides, he may have a new type: someone like that English lady, Gemma Gosnold. Now she is something.
“Can I ask you something?” Harold says.
“What?” Rupert is distracted, working furiously in his own SmartSpec world.
“Do you think that Jason fellow can follow through on his threats?”
“Nah,” Rupert says. “He owns the biggest chunk of stock after me and my original partner, and he’s got allies on the board. Venture capitalists, mostly. But he’s never been able to get traction with the analysts, or the employees, for that matter, and until he does that, he’ll have a hard time getting rid of me.”
“I hope you’re right. He seemed mighty serious.”
“In any case, I have a few tricks at the ready,” Rupert says. He rubs his hands together. “I could cause a huge, bloody, public battle, and that’s the last thing Jason needs right now if he wants the IPO to go forward as scheduled.”
Harold checks his phone, but none of the team members have contacted him, and there’s still nothing from Marina. “Anything on our jailbirds?” he says to Rupert.
“Our what?” Rupert says.
“What’s the news on our incarcerated friends?”
“Hold on,” Rupert says. He blinks and gestures furiously for a few minutes, then says, “They’re having a bail hearing at eight Monday morning. That gives us a day to get down there and get prepared.”
Chapter Seven
You’ve Got To Hand It To Them
Belle is tired and grubby. There’s a bubbling pool of ichor in her gut.
Is she scared? She should be scared—after all, she’s in a town full of hicks who probably think of her as an abomination, given that she looks like she might be tainted with non-white blood. But she isn’t scared. She’s too angry to be scared.
Belle’s reasonably sure now that Jimmy Wishkowski had fooled them. He’d pretended he was glad to see her, but the minute they’d left, he’d called the law. Even with the several thousand dollars she’d won in Vegas, she doubts if she has enough money for bail, not in this town with the judge they’re sure to get stuck with.
The jail is better than she’d expected, certainly better than the juvenile detention center she’d landed in when she was sixteen. That’s one advantage of a for-profit jail, she thinks. The place is modern, clean, uncluttered, orderly, and quiet.
The idea that she can’t get out—that’s what keeps her awake all night. Every part of the jail is monitored with video cameras, and every space is separated from every other space by small, bare anterooms accessed through facial recognition. She can feel someone’s eyes on her every second. The feeling is like hot pokers stabbing her gut.
She passes a boring Sunday pacing in a depressing common room while the other inmates bicker and watch old television programs about happy families.
On Monday morning, when they give her clothing back and she’s finally led to the courtroom, she’s relieved, almost elated, in spite of herself, to see William and Nick. Calm William, nervous Nick.
“Maybe they’ll go easy on us,” William says, wrapping an arm around Nick’s wide shoulders.
The bailiff tells William to put his hands in his lap.
“Did you see the judge?” Belle says, pointing her forehead at the bench and grimacing. “We are never getting out of here.”
The judge is a wizened old man with leathery skin, a permanent frown, and a sharp glint in his blue eyes. He speaks to the sheriff, who leans her bulk over the bench to talk into his ear. He slowly shakes his head.
Belle hopes she’s mistaken about what the judge is thinking: that she and her friends, who are from the bluest city in the country, by the way, th
ink they can do whatever they want and get away with it out here in red-bumpkin country. But she’s pretty sure she’s not mistaken. The judge is looking at them like he’s going to throw them in that jail and let the county profit from their labor forever.
The judge nods curtly at the bailiff.
Belle looks down the table at William and Nick. William looks all right. He always looks all right—either handsome and healthy or handsome and attractively dissipated. Nick, on the other hand, is pale and sweaty. She only hopes he has enough sense and fortitude to refrain from answering any questions or admitting guilt.
“You got your grandfather on the phone, right?” William whispers to Nick.
“I did. He promised to come,” Nick says. “But I don’t know how fast he can get down here.”
Nick hunches over. Tears fill his eyes.
Deputy Smith now looks like a well-rested, giant baby. He is holding his cap on his lap, waiting for his cue to testify.
The prosecutor could have just walked in from barrel racing in a rodeo: tight jeans constricting her strong buttocks and thighs, scuffed cowboy boots, a checked western shirt, a string tie, a mop of stiff, sun-bleached hair.
Their public defender, a kid just out of law school, looks like he grew up in a gated compound in Beverly Hills. He’s slender and dressed in khakis and an expensive button-down shirt. There’s a pair of smart glasses in his shirt pocket. Smart glasses are banned in Nye County courtrooms.
The public defender does not seem particularly stupid, but he’s not well prepared.
He scrolls rapidly through screens full of text on his tablet. “I have more than two hundred cases right now,” he says. “But I’ll do my best for you.”
Belle groans. She watches Nick as he begins rocking and pinching his own thighs.
Just as the bailiff is reciting the charges, the door to the courtroom opens, and Harold rushes in, followed closely by none other than Rupert Jones Jr.
Rupert is wearing his glasses, a black smart shirt, black combat pants, and bright yellow deerskin driving moccasins.
Harold is wearing a blue workman’s coverall. He waves at Nick and nods at William and Belle.
Belle is shocked to see Rupert, wondering if he's come to testify against them. But no, that wouldn’t serve his interests. Surely he’s here to help. Belle doesn’t believe in being optimistic, but she can’t help but hope to get out of this miserable situation. She makes herself breathe.
Nick is squirming in his seat. He nods at Rupert, mouths “thank you” to his grandfather.
“Permission to address the court, your honor?” Rupert says.
The judge’s tongue clicks a warning. “Are you their attorney, sir?”
“No, but I’m prepared to take responsibility for them,” Rupert says. “They are employees of mine, in a manner of speaking.”
The judge points down at Rupert’s face. “What are you wearing on your face? Do you think, sir, that we’ve never heard of such devices out here in the wilderness?”
Rupert says nothing.
“Take that device off!” the judge says. “And sit down.”
Rupert takes the glasses off and sits down next to Harold, who has settled behind Nick on the benches. The bailiff laughs behind his hand.
Belle sneaks a look at Deputy Smith, who is looking at the floor and shuffling his feet. It’s clear to Belle that he’s recognized Rupert and fears his billionaire clout.
After the charges are read, the prosecutor makes an appeal for keeping the three criminals in jail. Something about “wanton disregard.” She also cites several previous run-ins with the law by Annabelle Morris.
Belle whispers to their attorney.
“Juvenile offenses, your honor,” their attorney says. “Supposedly expunged from the accused’s record.”
“Noted,” the judge says. “Nonetheless, I hereby set bail at one million dollars.” The judge turns his intense and disapproving gaze on Belle and her friends.
Everyone gasps—everyone but Rupert.
“I’ll post bail, your honor,” Rupert says, raising his right index finger. “I’ve got the cash right here. If your staff could just beam routing instructions to my glasses?”
He winks at Belle and puts the glasses back on.
She’s never been more surprised or more grateful in her entire life. She nods at Rupert and gives him a thumbs-up.
Within a half an hour, the three accused miscreants are processed, their possessions are returned to them, and they are outside the jail.
Rupert waves them over to the parking lot, where they blink in the bright sunlight, examining a monstrous vehicle. She peeks inside and sees some seats, a table, and what appears to be a kitchenette.
“I bought it on the way down,” Rupert says, placing a logoed cap on his head and climbing into the driver’s seat. “The seller delivered it here for me. Nice, huh?”
“You're really going to wear that hat?” Harold says.
“What’s wrong with the hat?” Rupert says. “It came with the van.”
Harold shakes his head. “It clashes with your glasses.”
“You’re not getting my hat, Harold,” Rupert says.
“It’d look better on me,” Harold says.
“No,” Rupert says. He sweeps his arm out. “Behold, a classic. A 2014 RoadTrek camper van. It sleeps four to six people and has a refrigerator, a stove, a sink, and even a toilet. I’ve always loved these old vans. When I was a kid, my dad and I drove one all the way across the country.”
“It’s an odd choice for a billionaire,” Harold says. “But I remember these things were top of the line back in the day.”
“They were never top of the line, Harold,” Rupert says. “But it reminds me of my dad, so I bought it. Besides, as a favor to me and in consideration of the exorbitant price I paid for this dandy vehicle, the old guy I bought it from won’t be reporting the sale for a week or so. We’ll be under the radar in this thing. Get in, everyone. We’re going to have some fun.”
Belle is about as skeptical about all this as it’s possible to get, but her gratitude at being sprung from the county lockup keeps her quiet. She does, however, claim the front passenger seat for herself.
“Do you know how to drive, son?” Harold says, taking the jump seat directly behind Belle. “Because I do. I drive my pickup all the time on country roads. I’ll bet you have not driven a car in years.”
“You’d be wrong about that,” Rupert says cheerfully. “Driving is a hobby of mine.”
“In those simulations, maybe. Not quite the same,” Harold says.
Belle wishes the old guy would take it a little easier on Rupert. Then she wonders again why Rupert has gone to all this trouble to rescue them.
“About that, Rupert,” Nick says. “Have you driven real cars? Or just the virtual type?”
Rupert smiles and says nothing. He turns around and grins, pointing at his face. “Don’t worry, people. I have the best driving aid on the market. Spigot Smartspecs. My glasses tell all. I even have a dedicated satellite link. My very own tiny orbiting marvel, beaming me whatever information I need..”
Harold leans forward so far that his face is right next to Rupert’s. “What if a deer leaps onto the road, Rupert? Ever think of that? You’re peeping those pornos and you hit a deer and we’re all dead.”
Belle stares at Harold. “Will you please—?”
But Rupert interrupts her. “I peep pornos only on my own time. The glasses superimpose a route using extremely unobtrusive visual cues. It’s very ergonomic.”
“That’s what I said: porno,” Harold says. He tries to take the hat off of Rupert’s head, but Rupert bats his hand away.
“No, Harold,” Rupert says. “That’s not what ergonomic—"
“He’s messing with you, Rupert,” Nick says.
Harold cackles.
“You’re a nasty old bastard, Harold,” Rupert says, putting the old van in gear. “And just for that, I’m going to turn on my tour guide app and
convey the fascinating tidbits and legends about this part of the American West to all of you as we go.”
“Rupert,” Nick says, in a quiet, conciliatory tone, “that’s nice and everything, and thank you again for getting us out of jail, but I don’t understand why we aren’t flying.”
“There is no I in team, Nick, and we’re going to experience that for ourselves,” Rupert says. “My dad always said there was nothing like a road trip for bonding.”
Nick groans. William shakes his head.
Belle puts her head in her hands and wonders what she did to deserve all this.
Rupert turns in his seat and grins at each of them in turn. “It’s a beautiful day, kids. And we’re going to take this lovely scenic drive to Oakland, which will require only a couple of additional travel hours. Then we’ll call for the plane, find Marina and Paul, put them on the plane with us, and fly back to Seattle in plenty of time for the tournament.”
“More like six additional travel hours,” Belle says. “Hours we could be practicing.”
“By the time they do all the futzing about with the jet, believe me, it’s a wash,” Rupert says. Besides, the plane needs a decent-sized runway.”
They drive in silence for two minutes. Belle is just beginning to nod off when Rupert starts talking again.
“Up ahead, lady and gents,” Rupert says, “you will observe the turnoff to the International Car Forest of the Last Church, an artist’s installation made of old automobiles balanced delicately on their ends or stacked atop one another.”
“We’re not stopping?” William says, as they blow by the turnoff.
“If you stop to look at a junkyard, I’ll lose it,” Belle says. “Just so you know.”
“Fine,” Rupert says. He pulls the hat down to fit more tightly on his head.
Harold pinches the top of it and pulls it up. “You’re going to cut off the circulation in that genius brain of yours.”
“Leave the hat alone, Harold, or I’ll throw it out the window,” Belle says.
“That would be a shame,” Harold says solemnly. “It’s a fine hat.”