With the contract in hand, Detective Smith checks in with his Captain and begins the process of pulling together a plan of action.
The only question is, how much will it cost...
Link to Part I: http://www.dailykos.com/...
Even though it was late, Jones said we had to check in with the Captain before calling it a night, so we made our back through the inky black streets to the district office. The office was half empty with the night shift covering for the few calls that came in. Most shareholders knew there was no point in contacting NYS during off peak hours. They would just be routed to a call centre in Malaysia with an excruciating relay time back to New York for the few calls that met the “emergency” standard. A few day walkers were still at their desks catching up on overdue work. There was no overtime pay for doing this but when it came down to a choice between working for free or not working at all, well, that choice became pretty damn simple.
Jones gave a perfunctory knock and walked into the Captain’s office like he was entering his own john at home and sat without introduction. The Captain looked at him with raised eyebrows and then looked at me. “Well…?” He let the question hang like a noose.
“He blew it.” Jones said suddenly with an air of exasperation. “He asked for 250K and they said go to Hell.” Before either any of us could say a word, Jones burst out laughing. “Oh Hell”, he laughed “I thought I could keep it together”. He started laughing in a braying jackass manner that nearly always induces a homicidal rage.
If you’ve ever seen any of those old cop shows from the turn of the century, you would think that being a large angry black man who constantly yelled was part of the job description for police Captains. Well, our Captain not only put that stereotype on its head, he punched it in the gut for being stupid. The Captain was a business major from some crappy city college who drifted into the Security Service when no corporation would give him a job. Completely useless as a cop, it was eventually discovered that he had a knack for negotiation. In cop land, if you want job security, you either make a buck or save a buck, and the Captain could do both. This was the only ticket he needed and once he started bringing in high returns, he was quickly promoted to middle management with an district office all his own.
A tired, overworked middle aged white man with a wife and three kids, the Captain didn’t even have the opportunity to pad his wages with shakedowns of shareholders. Stuck behind a desk he had one responsibility and that was to see the profit margin for the district continued to go up every year. A couple of bad years in a row, and the Captain would be taking a devastating early retirement. He only managed a living income by skimming the payoffs and bribes from the beat cops and detectives like myself and by securing contracts with good commissions. Despite this, the Captain always presented a glacial exterior so devoid of emotion that any observer could be forgiven for thinking he was dealing with a robot. This contract offered a payout that would keep the Captain and his family out of poverty for a decade or more. Maybe even pay for a high school education for one of his kids. But even though I had a feeling the Captain’s heart was also beating out a drum solo, you couldn’t it tell from his face.
I walked over to the nearest empty chair and dropped into it. “500K plus expenses. A trip to Boston by car, 5 guys. Need to take out a Knowledge Mill, retrieve some photos and get back home without raising a fuss.”
The Captain stared at me. “That all?” he asked flatly. I shrugged slightly. “What more you want?”
The Captain stood and went to a filing cabinet and pulled open one of the drawers. Taking out a bottle and two glasses he poured a shot into each. He handed me one of the glasses and we clinked them together before downing the hooch in one shot. “Not to shabby” he said hoarsely. I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the deal or the drink.
“Hey” said Jones, suddenly stopping his laughter “what about me? I was part of this deal too.”
“You had your celebration with that dumbass joke” the Captain said bluntly as he put the bottle and glasses back in the cabinet and slid the drawer shut. “How long will it take you to put together a team?” the Captain asked me ignoring Jones’ protests.
“48 hours. I already know who I need but I will have to pull them from their other projects. “
The Captain pulled out a note pad and began writing “Freelance or in house?” he asked.
“In house. I don't want to freelance this one. It’ll cut into our percentage.”
“Who’re considering?” He asked
“Taylor, Johnson, Andrews, and Black”. I replied. “I will get the car myself but someone else will have to handle the papers. That is out of my area of expertise.”
The Captain looked up. “How about Dietrich? He can probably wall flower you some or pipeline you to someone who can.”
Wall flower. Cop talk for phony certs. Hang on a wall but as good as dead. Could be anything. Diplomas, high school records, degrees. Hell, we had even grabbed a box full of phony Diplomas in Neurosurgery. Would hate to be the poor dumb bastard operated on by a doctor holding one of those. The market for phony credentials was enormous what with the demands from employers rising every year along with the cost of school tuition. Almost nobody had any of the actual knowledge they claimed to have. The running joke was of the Ph.D who couldn’t even read his own Diploma.
Dietrich was the cop who worked the phony cert business. Technically, his job was to expose and shut down the Paper Mills, but like the Captain, he didn’t work a beat. So the only way to pad his salary was to produce the phony certs he was supposed to be stopping. The Captain was right, if Dietrich couldn’t produce the papers needed, he could put me on to someone who could. Trouble was, if Dietrich stumbled to what the deal was, his costs would go way up; and every dime spent elsewhere was a dime less I could claim for myself.
“Yeah, I’ll check it out.” I said “It’ll save the production costs if we can keep that in house too.” That was code to the Captain that we needed to start squeezing our own people to keep our margins thick. I just hoped he had picked up on it.
“What about legal” the Captain said in a clipped tone. He looked over at Jones who was still pouting over the missed drink. “We’ll be out of jurisdiction and Boston won’t be in any mood to play favors. Will we have a problem if any of the team get snagged?”
“Naw” Jones said, waving his fingers as if dismissing a gnat. “I can bang out an Extra O memo describing the operation as a special action. That will provide cover for any blowback that might come. Being out of our jurisdiction and dealing with Boston will make it a little more complicated, but as we are talking about bunch of illegals running a Knowledge Mill, it shouldn’t be a problem making the memo stick.”
“Extraordinary Action in the Interests of Corporate Security”. That was the actual terminology of what Jones was talking about. It was confidential provision in the Global Corporate Charter that legitimized just about any action any board chose to take in response to a problem. Technically, shareholders had rights and among those was the right not to be tortured or killed. But this “right” had the effect of hamstringing boards from solving certain problems in the most cost effective way possible. So, the “Extra O” memo was born. In the event some board protested the torture or killing of some shareholder, the offending board merely needed to show it had a legal Extra O memo that justified the action to escape liability. That would be almost impossible to do if the shareholder was someone of wealth or importance; but some run of the mill person who was pissing off a board of directors? Not a problem.
“Be sure it covers everybody from the Manhattan board down to each member of the team, just to be safe”. The Captain instructed. “I don’t want Boston finding a loop hole and using it to their advantage.”
“Will do” Jones replied airily.
The lights suddenly cut out and the room fell black. The hum of computers died into silence and we sat there for a moment. “Crap” Captain said quietly.
“Didn’t NYS buy enough electricity to get through the night?” It was Jones asking a dumbass question that had just been answered by the dying lights.
“Cutbacks” I heard Captain explain. “Upper management said that the last cost/benefit analysis showed we were losing money by buying power after 10:00 pm.” The sound of the door opening was heard and a beam from a flashlight illuminated the Captain’s face.
“Quitt’n time Cap”. It was Murphy, desk Sergeant for the district office.
“Right behind you Murph”. Said the Captain. The Captain rose from his desk and gave instructions as he put on his coat. “I approve your choice of team, go ahead and assemble them on my authority. Anyone gives you face, tell them to bring it to me. I want to keep this as down as it can go so don’t talk details, just the where’s and when’s. You have signing authority for 10% but not a jot more. Dietrich is to get no more than three, so if he hardballs you, send him to me or go freelance. I expect a plan for presentation in 3 days. See you then and last one out grab the door.”
With that the Captain walked away escorted by Murphy. I couldn’t help the small smirk that curled my lip. The Captain was no idiot. He had gotten my meaning clear as crystal; we were to squeeze our people white.
“Well” said Jones, sounding strangely distant in the darkness, “I guess that is that. Though, you might wanna tell our glorious leader when you see him next, that going into Boston for a smash and grab, Extra O or not, isn’t going to be as easy as he thinks.”
I could tell Jones was still pissed at being stiffed on the drink but he was right, Boston was going to be difficult and all the memos in the Corporate world wasn’t going to change that. “Don’t try and talk cop” I finally said as I stood up “it only makes you sound like a douche bag.” I walked out of the darkened office leaving Jones to lock up.
Night in New York is a different experience depending on what part of the city you’re in. In the wealthy sections, the city is lit up like a Christmas tree, with shops and stores blazing out fluorescents so bright it looks like high noon. The streets there are crowded with well heeled shareholders going from one happening spot to another, oblivious to time or cost. Luxury rides from China, India and Korea jam the roads burning more gas just standing still than an average prolmobile burns in a week. There is no shortage of anything in this section of the city, including a heavy police presence to ensure the high living shareholders get home safe and sound each night.
A few blocks up and the story changes. Night here is felt like a black bag pulled tight over the head. Not a glimmer of light is seen and you hit your high beams and make sure your doors are locked. You drive down the centre of the road and do your best to avoid the potholes, some so big that if you fell in, there would be no getting out again. Every so often you see a figure or two salvaging in a pile of refuse or pulling water out of one of the rain barrels that line the streets by the hundreds. Cars are few and far between here, almost all of them crappy little battery jobs from Mexico or Brazil. The people driving those cars are the type you don’t want to meet at night or any other time of day. Most of the people who live here ride the prolmobiles, street lingo for buses and subways.
I pulled up in front of my building and grabbing my flashlight, I got out of the car. The rain had let up so I took my time going up the stairs. A voice called out to me from the dark and swinging my light over to where the sound came from I saw it was Mrs. G the building super. She was standing by some of the rain barrels in front of the building. “Yoou late toonight eh Mr. Smeeth?” she said cheerfully.
“Yeah” I replied walking back down the steps toward her. “Getting water?” I asked. It was a dumb question as she had several large buckets with her, some of which were already full.
“Si” she answered and pushed another bucket into the black surface of a barrel. “Iz bat night for dee cheedren.” I bent down and picked up a couple of the buckets. “Gracias Mr. Smeeth, dat very kind o you.” She said. We carried the buckets of water down into the basement flat where Mrs. G and her 5 children lived. Nobody knew what had happened to Mr. G and no one asked.
“Say Mrs. G” I said trying to sound casual, “You gotta chance to look at the stove yet? It’s still leaking gas so I can’t use it”.
We entered her apartment and walked over to a large tin tub in the middle of floor. Underneath the tub was a small O-ring gas burner putting out a small flame. Obviously “bat night” meant tomorrow night. The water would be warm enough to bathe in by then. “Oh Mr. Smeeth,” she said “I tell building dat dey need to sen some one rite away, but you know what iz like, all da time its ‘we donna have da money, we need da money.’ All da time wid dat. You no able to fix yourself?” Mrs G started pouring water into the tub which made any reply pointless. It was a subtle way of telling me to come up with a bribe or to shut the F up and do the job myself.
I walked out of the apartment and went up to my own place. It was worth a shot asking about the stove. Maybe I catch her at a moment of weakness and she agrees to fix it for free. But I knew it was long shot. Mrs. G had 5 mouths besides her own to feed and outside of a free apartment, she got next to nothing for being super of the building. If she didn’t shakedown the tenants for jobs that needed doing, she wouldn’t survive.
I entered my own apartment and closed the door. It was black and depressing when lit only by a flashlight but I didn’t turn on the light. It was too early in the month and I had other uses for the electricity I had left. I went over to the table and lit a few candles. Their glow brightened the place a little and provided a some warmth as well. I could see the charge counter on the wall brightly shining in the twilight. “236 HOURS REMAINING” it glowed a sick green.
236 kilowatt hours of electricity remaining before I had to buy more time or sit in a powerless dark. Not enough. Not for what was needed. I did some mental calculations and finally thought “what the Hell, maybe I can tack the cost on as an expense”. I went over to the charge counter and bought another 50 hours on credit. So? I just wouldn’t watch TV for the next few days.
I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and clicked on the portable gas burner that stood on my still useless stove. A blue ring of fire blazed up and I put a pot on top of it. I dumped a can of something into the pot followed by a can of water from a jug in the fridge. The water was rain water from the same barrels in front of the building but I had the chance to boil it, so I was reasonably confident it was safe to drink.
Once my soup was ready I poured it into a bowl, crumbled in some dry Raman noodles and with the beer went over to my computer. The computer was the property of NYS and if I ever got canned or quit, they would take it back, but until then, it was all mine. I touched the screen and the computer flickered to life. “Smith. W. Password ASL2239 Echo” I said and took a mouthful of soup “hmm….Beef with Barley”
“Password accepted. Welcome back Detective Smith” The computer spoke in a voice that purred with pleasure at the wonderful news that I was back on line. It was said that the designers had done years of psych research to determine the exact tone and tremor of the artificial voice so as to make users more likely to buy and stick with their model of computer. That always sounded like a calculated attempt at addiction to me.
“Hello Jeremy” I replied. Personal names were also an added touch to bond user to machine. I hated the name Jeremy which is why I picked it when personalizing the computer. I didn’t need to get chummy with a silicon chip. I picked a male voice as well because…well, I didn’t need to get anything else from a chip either. “Query…Ground Travel…New York to Boston…5 passengers…Least Energy consumption…Economy class…Ideal Vehicle.”
“Woorking” the Computer purred. There was gentle whirring for a few seconds as the computer accessed the necessary information. I took another mouthful of soup and munched on semi softened noodles. “Your ideal vehicle would be a Yangtze model Economy class. Locating sellers…” the machine whirred some more.
“Hold” I said sharply. I didn’t need to know the sellers and I didn’t want anyone who might be monitoring my usage to know either. I needed to lay down some false inquires to keep the tracking software guessing. “Query…Ground Travel…New York to Philadelphia…3 passengers…Luxury class…Ideal vehicle.”
Jeremy purred his usual “Woorking” reply and I finished my soup and started on the beer. A few more false inquires and I figured I had put out enough false info to keep the bloodhounds off the scent.
As a cop I was one of the few shareholders who knew just how much personal information was being collected on nearly every individual alive. Simply put; everything. There was nothing that wasn’t being collected, sifted, categorized and labeled. 100% of online traffic was monitored. As were all cell phone calls, bank transactions, TV shows, books, movies, magazines and just about everything else people did in their everyday lives. Everything bought, sold, used or thrown out was noted.
The vast majority of this information was used for advertising and commercial purposes. If numbers showed that shareholders in one part of the world loved Chinese food, watched nothing but reality TV and couldn’t get enough of the latest sports star, advertisers could pipe a commercial directly into their sets that included their hero voting some schmuck off the island while eating his favorite brand of Pot Stickers. I wasn’t sure how much of my usage would find its way to the Manhattan board, but there was no profit in being careless.
“Jeremy…offline”
“Offflinne” Jeremy confirmed sounding a little hurt. Damn those techs and their psych profiles. I did the rest of the work manually, running the numbers and calculating costs. Even though the contract was 500K plus expenses, I knew if we couldn’t back up the expenses with some believable numbers, the Manhattan board would refuse to pay. If it was obvious we were padding the account, well, they could use that as grounds to rescind the entire contract regardless of the results. I finally completed a working expense account that, while being padded out quite nicely, could still pass even a careful audit. Manhattan would know we were charging more than we spent, but they wouldn’t be able to prove it.
I downloaded the account to a portable data stick and shut down the computer. Tomorrow I would have Dietrich create some phony receipts and invoices to cover most of the expenses itemized. I would also get him to provide the needed papers for the team. Now that the expense work had been finished, the work of assembling the team and tracking down the Knowledge Mill could begin.
I put my bowl in the kitchen sink and blowing out the candles, went to bed.
Charles Dickens once wrote something about how generous it was that the poor were permitted to sleep for free. This occurred to me now as I slipped into unconsciousness.
“If only you knew, Chuck, if only you knew” I muttered and fell asleep.