CHAPTER 4

It was later that night, after milk, cookies, and a healthy shot of brandy, that Richard, stripped to his t-shirt and skivvies, propped himself against the bed’s headboard.  After a few moments, he removed a magazine and a Virtual Reality disc from the brown bag.  His face twitched slightly as he glanced at the cover of the “adult” magazine.  A few seconds later, he slid it back into the bag, and folded the flap over neatly, then placed the brown bag and disc side by side on the bench at the foot of his bed.  As if by ceremony, he then lit a candle.  After turning off his bed lamp, he leaned back up against the headboard and continued his consideration of the bag and disc.  After a few moments, he reached for the Maximum strength NoDoz and downed two of them, pulling his gaze back to the bag and video.

“That’s just plain weird.  Poor fucker has his work cut out for him, doesn’t he?” said Urian. 

Skitter swung his attention to Richards monitor, and nodded.  “He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“Just why Quill likes them,” said Saeger.  He snapped his overall straps and said, “Hey, looks like Roxanne’s ‘Albert’ has arrived.”

“You like her, don’t you,” said Skitter.

“Hey, for us old fucks, new is always good, Skitter.”

All eyes switched to Roxanne’s screen. 

Sitting before her, as she urgently typed at her computer, was a wild looking young man of twenty, dressed in a bright pink shirt, combat pants and boots.  After he laid down a stack of lined paper with notes, he played with his stringy blond hair, a clump in each hand, like a split-ends battle for some kind of imaginary supremacy as she voiced her complaint.

“Albert, you ask me to ignore my other clients—an important deadline, no less—and you want me to explain the fifty grand?”

“Yeah, why?” said Albert amidst his hair battle with his utterance of child-like sound effects of clashing swords and shields.

“Must you?” asked Roxanne, glaring at his hair game. 

He abruptly dropped his hair.  “Of course.  Why fifty grand?”

“Because, my good friend, I’m the best.  No… that implies comparison… I’m the only one doing this…”. She leaned into her computer screen.  “Guggenheim.  Guggenheim.  Ie or ei?”

“What?”

Roxanne turned from her screen and addressed him direct.  ‘“I’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c,’ right?”

Albert rolled his eyes.  “It’s h-e-i-m.  Christ, you’re the writer I’m supposed to pay fifty big ones to and you can’t even spell.”

Roxanne looked intently at the screen.  “You sure it’s ‘e-i?”’

“I’m sure!  Fifty grand is too much.”

“That’s what I get.”

“Jesus, I contracted you to just get me a new manager, not a new suit.”

Roxanne broke a smile.  “Cute.  I’ll have to remember that for a script.  Look, Albert… just give me a minute to finish this last paragraph, okay?  Client’s picking this up in a half hour.  Raid the refrigerator.  Have a drink.  Here, watch TV on the mantle.”

A painting above the marble fireplace rotated, revealing an eighty-inch flat screen, showing ESPN Formula 1 racing.

Albert stood and started for the kitchen.  “How’d you do that?”

“Technology, Albert.  Cutting edge.  Pretty nice, eh?”

“No wonder you charge fifty,” he quipped.

The race continued, keeping Albert’s half-an-eye trained on the screen.  He opened the fridge and took a Coke, grabbed a box of bite-size Shredded Wheat snacks from the kitchen table, and returned to the coffee table.  Sitting down on the couch, he started eating and drinking, getting further and further caught up in the action of the race.  He dumped some of the wheat squares on the table and lined them up like hay-bales on a driving course.

Roxanne shot him a glance and shook her head.

Meanwhile, Albert hunched over and started making poor imitations of Ferrari sounds as he played out his new imaginary car racing around the wheat squares with a matchbox.

Another glance from Roxanne was ignored.

Skitter leaned back in his chair and threw his fork into the empty aluminum food container on his desk.  “Damn.  Some of Albert’s ordinary archaic junk food would taste good right now.”

Albert continued with the matchbox until Roxanne finally stood up, pressed the “print” key and stepped to the printer.  Satisfied that the printing was going well, she walked over to the couch and sat down.

In between his Ferrari sounds and the squealing of tires, he asked once again, “If fifty grand will pay for my tires at Monte Carlo, why should I fork that over to you for something I don’t know will work?”

Roxanne calmly said, as she repositioned one of the squares, “Because that’s my price and you can afford it, and… it will work.”

Albert played like he was ignoring her last words and continued with moving his matchbox around between the bales.

“You really own one of those?” asked Roxanne.

“The car?  Me and the band, yeah… all million six of it.  Just like up there on the screen.”

“They want a new manager, too?”

“Just me.”

“Albert rules, eh?”

“Albert rules.”

With one last “vroom” Albert turned.  “And, Roxanne, what if your little ‘plot’ crashes and burns?”

“Unlike cars, my strategies and scripts don’t crash and burn.”  She stood, walked to the printer, gathered up the collated copies, and said, “I have an in with Pirelli.  Probably save you something on those tires.”

“I use Firestone.”

“No wonder you’re preoccupied with crashing and burning.”

“That’s a very old joke,” he said.

“Sorry.  Researchers never forget history.  Here,” she said as she handed him a copy of the script she’d been typing.

“What’s this?”

“A sample of why I’m paid what I’m paid.  You only came to me through a recommendation.  You don’t have a clue how good I am.  Read.  And then… we’ll talk again.”

Albert rose.  “I thought this was a deadline for your other client.  Don’t you...”

“It is. I don’t.  I’ll print out another copy. That’s for you.”

“What’s it about,” he said, thumbing through the pages.  Why all the redactions?

She picked up his stack of notes.  “Like everything else, Albert.  Sex, money and power.  Gotta protect my sources.”  Looking at his notes, “These the answers to my initial questions?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t said yes yet.”

As he reached the door, he threw a glance back at the TV.  “Damn.  Like to see the end of this.”

She gave a grand gesture back into the room.  “Be my guest.  I’ll be on the hard drive putting your notes together for our next meeting.”

“Cocky and confident.”

“Have to be when you’re charging fifty.”

Albert continued to the door.  “Fuck the race.  Fifty.  But if I give you a green light, I get as many rewrites as I want.”

“Just give me a complete dossier on your manager and you won’t need any rewrites.  In the world of persuasion, Roxanne rules, Albert.”

He opened the door and paused.  “I don’t want him to suffer.”

“Please,” said Roxanne dismissively.

Saeger, Skitter and Urian were all standing on Albert’s exit and now Urian lifted the telephone.

“Just your everyday playwright,” said Skitter, looking at other screens now.

“She’s writing the real kind, Skitter, said Saeger.  “Some reality TV that might be beyond the reality we want.”  Saeger turned his attention to the phone.  “Ed, a Rocker lookin’ guy in flaming pink is coming out.  He’ll probably…”. He turned to Skitter.  “Skitter, put SAT – III on tracking Ed.”

Ed, an aging forties cab driver and Giants fan through and through, dropped his Krispy Kreme back in a half empty box and pulled up a small container of Visene, flooding his bloodshot eyes as he yelled into his phone.  “Yeah?  He’ll probably what?”

“Hail you, Ed.  He’ll probably hail you.  Stay with him at his drop,” said Saeger as his attention went to the master screen showing Ed’s cab and Albert exiting The Godard.  As assumed, Albert hailed Ed’s cab.  “Skitter, give me Ed’s POV.”

Suddenly, the screen switched from the overhead, to inside the cab, Ed’s POV now looking through the windshield at Albert waving him down. 

“Ed, your timing is, as always, impeccable,” said Saeger into his Bluetooth headset.  Urian and Skitter followed suit and attached their own communication pieces.

“Picture’s a bit blurry, Ed,” said Saeger.

Ed dripped some more Visine into this eyes.  “You want clear pictures, don’t you, Saeger?  Let this eye-drop shit work its magic.  Fuckin’ beer last night almost had me.” 

Ed pulled up to The Godard entrance and picked up Albert just as Urian’s private line to Quill rang.

“Shit,” said Urian to Saeger.  “Doesn’t that guy ever sleep?”  He picked up the call from Quill.  “Yes, Mr. Quill… Yes, Sir, I’m aware of that.  You’re right… Right, again.  She does seem to be writing a bit different from… I’ve just become aware like you, Sir… you’re right, they’re hardly just plain scripts.  Psychic?  I don’t have any reason to believe… She’s just moved in, sir.  Yes.  We’ll watch closely… What?  Richard?  Dreams?  A couple of nights ago we picked up a glitch and… I believe Skitter fixed it… Sir… Look, Sir… what goes on at night with SAT - IV and your dream experiments is none of my business…  Well, you haven’t made it my business, Sir… Yes… I’ll look forward to that… After the tenant meeting tomorrow… yes, Sir… Beg your pardon?”  Urian turned back to Skitter.  “The fucker hung up on me.”

“Bit jittery, is he?” asked Skitter.

Urian thought a moment.  “Saeger, program some reminders and key word alerts into Roxanne’s screen.  He wants a closer watch on her for the time being.”

Saeger smiled.  “Sweet.”

Urian sat down and stared at the monitor banks.  “Called me names, then said he missed me.  What the hell does that mean?”

Skitter and Saeger looked up.  “Sounds like he’s feeling charitable again,” said Saeger.  “While you were at Station Three, he reamed me a new asshole whenever that phone rang.”

Urian continued, “Then he says the Dream Lab has made some extraordinary discoveries… wants me involved now.”

Saeger gazed over at the bank of screens labeled Sleeping.  “So, how much do you already know about it?”

Urian stared ahead.  “Like I told you before, he started that whole new dream business when I was gone.  Know enough now to maybe not want to know anymore.”

“That’s an option?” asked Saeger.

Urian was shaken out of his thoughts when Ed blurted out, “Hey, Mister, you want I should keep driving around the park?”

On Ed’s screen, his POV of the meter showed $83.50.  The rear-view mirror showed Albert heavily involved in reading the script.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Albert without looking up.  Mumbling to himself, he said, “What a number she’s doin’ on whoever this guy is.  Jesus!”

“Can you give me a tweak on that script, Skitter?” asked Urian, now leaning forward toward Ed’s screen.

Skitter reached across his consul, flipped a switch, and Ed’s screen showed an overhead infrared schematic rendering of the cab, down through the rooftop to a solarized picture, then the script popped on, clear and readable.  “Damn, SAT - III pulls in this kind of stuff a hell of lot better after that change.”

Saeger stood up and walked to the front.  “Am I reading that right?”

“She’s got two characters labeled ‘L’ and ‘C.’  Likes her secrecy, eh?” said Skitter.

“No, no.  At the bottom,” said Urian.  “Right Saeger?”

“Yeah.  The bottom,” he answered.

Skitter made another adjustment, tilting down and blowing up the bottom of the page.

“Slow it down,” said Saeger.  “Gimme four- or five-times magnification.  A little better… can’t really read it…”

Urian put on his glasses.  “Whoever ‘M’ is… this ‘M’ is playing with…”

Albert abruptly turned the page, revealing a ledger print out. 

“What’s that?” asked Saeger.

“It ain’t my bank account, that’s for sure,” said Skitter.

Urian read it aloud.  “Twenty-five thousand… daily?  Electronic deposits in ‘M’s account… bank account… every other day?”

“So?” said Skitter.  “Lots of people make that kind of money.  Just not me.”

Urian continued.  “So?  So it also shows they’re being electronically withdrawn every other day, as well, and re-deposited in another account.”

“Some scenario.  More like a shell-game.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Urian, sitting back down.  “Just monitor, right?  That’s all we’re supposed to do, remember?”

“Sure,” said Skitter.

“That’s right,” said Saeger.

No one took their eyes off Ed’s screen.