Jennifer Government

  “A hospital! I hope he’s all right. What happened?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

  Fraud, Calvin thought, will only get you so far. He flipped open his Government ID. “Okay, I’m not really from McDonald’s.”

  She gasped. Calvin blinked. The plastic didn’t usually have such an effect. “You’re not meant to come here! You’re not meant to—put that away!”

  “Oh, crap,” he said, realizing. “You’re Jen’s source.”

  “I—” She froze as someone passed in the corridor. She hissed, “This is not the deal!”

  He made the ID disappear. “I’m Jennifer Government’s partner. Where’s John Nike?”

  “Los Angeles. He left this morning.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  She lowered her voice even further, so he could hardly hear her. “I can’t talk here. Call me later, from a pay phone.”

  “Okay. I will.” Calvin turned to leave, then stopped. “By the way, where do you know Jennifer from?”

  “I worked for her at Maher. Please, you have to go.”

  “Maher?”

  Georgia stared at him. “The advertising firm. She’s Jennifer Maher. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Jennifer Maher…”It sounded vaguely familiar.

  “She was one of the best at the biggest ad company in the world. She ran campaigns for Coke, Apple, Mattel… she could sell anything. Why do you think she got the tattoo?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve wondered about that.”

  “If you’d been part of corporate America ten years ago, you’d already know. People still talk about her.”

  “So what happened? Why’d she quit?”

  “John Nike happened,” Georgia said. “Look, you have to go. If anyone knows you’re here—”

  “What do you mean, John happened?”

  “Please. You have to leave. Please.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help, Georgia Nike.”

  “Saints-Nike,” she said. “I work part-time for the Church of Latter Day Saints.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Whatever’s needed.”

  “And they pay you?”

  “No. But it’s still Saints-Nike.”

  “Okay,” Calvin said. “Then thank you, Georgia Saints-Nike.”

  36 Transposition

  Hack was sure of it: Violet was dead. She hadn’t come home after her business meeting, and there was only one plausible explanation: some NRA heavies had found her and taken her out. Maybe John Nike had tracked her down himself. Either way, Hack had made one big mistake too many, and it had killed Violet.

  He still had the ring. How poignant! His eyes watered every time he thought of it. He had tucked it in his bedroom drawer, but now he got it out and turned it over in his hands. That was how Claire found him: sitting on the bed, a blubbering mess. She hesitated in the doorway, wearing her Sears uniform. “You okay?”

  Hack held out the ring. “She’s gone.”

  “Violet?”

  “I killed her!” That made fifteen, Hack realized. He had murdered fifteen people. He was a serial killer.

  “Did you hear something?” He shook his head.

  Claire sat beside him on the bed. “Hack… until we know for sure, you should try not to worry so much. Violet is…Violet doesn’t always think of other people. She might just be busy.”

  “No, no!” He didn’t want to hear of Violet’s faults. Violet had been kind and thoughtful.

  “Hey, come on…” Claire put her arms around him. She hugged him tightly. For a second Hack was lost in the scent of her hair—but that, no doubt, was because Claire reminded him of her. “I’m sure she’ll be okay. You’re a sweet guy, Hack. You care too much.”

  He accepted this silently. His nose touched her nametag. It said: CLAIRE SEARS. She began stroking his hair. Hack closed his eyes. He might have drifted off, because then she was saying, “I have to go,” and he realized time had passed. He sat up. “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “If I’m thirty minutes late for work, I drop a pay grade.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I’d stay if I could.” She took her arm back. “I know.”

  “Stay cool,” she said, and poked his nose. He watched her leave. Claire was so good to him. He didn’t know why she didn’t have a boyfriend. Any guy in their right mind would grab on to Claire and not let go, Hack thought.

  He looked down. He was still holding the ring. He felt himself tearing up again. “Oh, Violet,” he said to the empty room, and no one answered.

  He spent an hour and a half wallowing around the house. Then he got hungry and made himself breakfast. As he ate, he wondered what people at Nike would be saying about him not showing up for work again. There were a bunch of posters that were meant to go to a store in Sydney, and Hack wondered if anyone had taken care of them.

  Then it struck him that if he did go in to Nike, he would be safe. His employment contract required Nike to provide a safe workplace, and surely John wouldn’t risk messing with that. Which meant Hack could confront John with total impunity. He could demand justice. Hack bit his lip. That was a daring idea. He began to get dressed.

  By the time the cab dropped him at Nike, his legs were shaking. His throat was parched. He decided to go to his desk first and get a drink of water. Then he could confront John.

  His boss, the Manager of Local Merchandising, caught him at the watercooler. It had been refilled since the day it had sent Hack off to the marketing floor: it had been refilled by the time he’d come back. “Hack! You take a sick day yesterday?”

  “Um…yes.”

  “Hack, you have to phone those in. You can’t just not show up for work. To qualify for sick pay, you need to phone in.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “I can’t approve pay for that day. I’m sorry, but it’s in your contract. Maybe next time you’ll remember.”

  Hack sat down at his desk. There was a stack of messages there, but he ignored them. He sipped at his water, then dialed reception and asked for John’s P.A.

  “Georgia Saints-Nike, good morning?”

  He took a breath. “I need to speak to John. It’s Hack from Merchandising.”

  There was a pause. “Oh, Hack… I’m sorry, John is overseas.”

  “Oh.” That was a surprise. “When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know. Not for a while.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Hack hung up and stared at his desk. So much for a confrontation. So much for publicly denouncing John. He felt relieved, and was ashamed of himself.

  “Hey, Hack,” his boss said, stopping at his desk. “You know something about posters for a Nike Town in Sydney? They’ve been calling and calling.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good man,” his boss said.

  There were a bunch of cars parked outside Claire’s house, and Hack felt a stab of fear. Maybe John had people watching him. Maybe the NRA had tracked him here! But even in the streetlights he could see the cars were tiny and rusting and had bumper stickers that said things like THE WORLD IS NOT FOR SALE. Hack didn’t think the NRA would get around like that.

  He entered the house. Claire was in the hallway, carrying a bunch of coffee cups. There were voices coming from the living room: loud and strident. Claire said, “Oh, Hack! How are you?”

  “Fine. Did Violet—”

  “She hasn’t called.”

  “Oh.” Someone in the living room said, “That kind of mentality is what allowed the corporate sector to dominate society in the first place!”

  Claire hesitated. “I have some people over. You might want to stay out of the living room.”

  “What people?”

  “Just a group…we talk about capitalizm and society and things.”

  “Oh,” Hack said. He thought he would keep out of the living room.

  “I mean, you’re welcome to join us, if you want.”


  He almost agreed. He didn’t want to say no to Claire. But he said, “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Come in later, if you want.”

  He went into the kitchen and got some juice from the fridge. The door to the living room was ajar, and the conversation from Claire’s friends spilled through.

  “That’s what they rely on,” a girl said. “They know no one wants to get involved. But until you stand up to them, they’ll push you as far as they can. Nike’s a prime example.”

  Hack started. For a second he thought they were talking about him. Then he realized they weren’t. Then he realized they were.

  He stood up and walked to the doorway with his juice. There were five of them. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry, do you… mind if I join you?”

  “Here,” Claire said. She patted the sofa beside her. Hack thought her smile was very beautiful.

  37 Inadvertency

  Billy nearly lost the bug even before he made it to the plane. Those Marlboros weren’t as satisfying as his regular brand, and he smoked one after another until they were all gone. He carefully stowed the empty pack in his jacket pocket, then, when the cab dropped him at the airport, fished it out and tossed it on the ground. He was inside the terminal before he realized what he’d done and sprinted back outside. It was lying on the concrete. He snatched it up and put it back in his pocket, where his restless fingers tried to crush it when he wasn’t concentrating.

  There was a ticket for Billy NRA at the counter, just like Jennifer had promised. He looked at the Departures board. Beneath his flight to Invercargill was one bound for Dallas, Texas.

  “Everything all right with your ticket, sir?”

  Billy hesitated. “How much to change my ticket to Dallas?”

  The girl behind the counter tapped at her keyboard. “I can get you on that flight for an additional three hundred and twelve dollars, sir.”

  “Oh,” he said, deflated. “Never mind.”

  He dragged his bag to the waiting lounge and stared at the TV. It was maybe ten minutes later when it occurred to him that Jennifer Government would have heard every word he said.

  He wandered through Invercargill Airport until he found a bus station that advertised services to Bluff, the small town the NRA was more or less running these days. There was only one other person there, an unshaven, rough-looking man guarding a canvas bag. Billy leaned against the wall and lit up a Camel from a pack he’d purchased on the plane.

  “Dude,” the man said. Billy turned, on guard. “Got a spare?”

  “Sure.” He dug out a cigarette and lit it for him.

  “Thanks, man.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bill NRA.”

  Billy blinked. “You’re kidding me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m Billy NRA!” He laughed.

  “Hey, brother! Geez, it’s good to meet another grunt. You stationed in Bluff?”

  “Yeah, I am!”

  “Just got back from Sydney myself.” He leaned closer. “You been on business or pleasure?”

  “Business,” Billy said.

  The man grinned. “I know about that. I know about that all right.”

  “You seen some action?”

  “Man, look at this.” He pulled up his shirt. There was a red, ugly scar line across his side; it looked pretty recent. “That’s action.”

  “Whoa, yeah.” He thought: That might have happened to me. If one of those Police cars had lined him up… “You didn’t do the Police job, did you? I don’t think I saw—”

  Bill shook his head. “No, dude. Something else.” He winked.

  “Cool.” He wondered if Jennifer Government was getting all this. It sounded like the kind of thing she would be interested in.

  “Hey, you wanna share a cab to base? We can report in together.”

  “Yeah, great idea!”

  “Maybe we’ll end up working together. That’d be shit-hot, eh?”

  “That’d be unreal,” Billy said. “Shit, it’s so funny, us having the same name.”

  “Oh yeah,” Bill said. “They’re gonna go nuts trying to tell us apart.”

  Billy laughed. The Marlboro packet was in his shirt pocket, and he felt it abruptly begin to vibrate. He slid it to one side. Jennifer probably wanted to bawl him out for thinking about skipping out to L.A.; well, she could fucking wait. “That’s so true,” he said to Bill. “Man, that’s so funny.”

  38 Discontinuance

  From his new office window, Buy Mitsui could see a gun store. It was NRA-affiliated, which was appropriate, or ironic, or something. Buy had decided that at the end of the day, he would visit this gun store, purchase a firearm, and shoot himself.

  People were going to say he’d cracked, that he’d been griefstricken. But that wasn’t it. The truth was simpler: nothing Buy could ever do would be as important as saving that girl Hayley’s life. He couldn’t watch a girl bleed to death and then go make 3 percent off stock trades. The idea was monstrous. So Buy was finished as a productive member of society, unless he managed to lose so much perspective that margin calls began to seem important again. Either way, Buy was prepared to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

  He was debating which was the biggest waste, buying lunch or saving the money, when his phone rang. He was so surprised he picked it up. “Uh—hello?”

  “Konitchiwa-hello,” the phone said. “Stand by please for Kato Mitsui, Liaison.”

  “For who?” Buy said.

  “Buy, hello!” a new voice said. “How are you? I hear the weather is lovely.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It is Kato Mitsui, Liaison. You are working for me, is that right?”

  “Oh, right,” Buy said. “Yes.”

  “Excellent! It is most good to speak with you. I hope you are excited about this new position, Buy. Are you excited?”

  “Uh,” he said. “Well—”

  “Good!” Kato laughed heartily. Buy had to hold the phone away from his ear. “We have much to do. Our consumer-marketer friends are launching programs of most excellent potential. If we do not wish Mitsui to be relegated to any sidelines, we too must devise some cunning marketing strategies. I am hoping you are well equipped in this department.”

  “Marketing strategies? I don’t know anything about—”

  “Ah, you are modest,” Kato said. “To begin, I shall tell you of a program belonging to our friends at IBM. They are rewarding customers who bring in a competitive product and submit it to their in-house crushing machine. It smashes it in-store, you see?”

  “Yes, I see—”

  “A most brilliant strategy, to relegate the competition to the status of junk and garbage. You must understand, it is difficult for we Japanese to think along these lines of head-to-head competition. This is why we are now finding ourselves running behind our energetic American friends. But the times they are a-changing, are they not?”

  “They are,” Buy said.

  “Very good! Now, you try one.”

  “What?”

  “I am needing all your esteemed ideas, Buy, to improve and establish our role in US Alliance.”

  “Uh…” he said. “Can I think about it and get back to you?”

  “Of course! I am trusting on your support, Buy. We will talk again when you have had some thoughts.”

  “I’m on it,” Buy said. He put down the phone. Then he stared at it. I’m on it. That was the sort of thing Buy used to say I’m on it, I’m all over it, let me find out what the story is and get back to you. Why had he said that? Because what Kato was talking about was interesting?

  I’m on it, he thought. It was happening already. He felt disgusted with himself.

  It was almost two. Close enough. Buy packed his briefcase and closed his office door behind him.

  There were so many guns, and Buy couldn’t be bothered looking through the racks. “I want a pistol,” he told the man behind the desk. “Something suitable for putting in my mouth and pulling the trigger.”
r />   The man raised his eyebrows. “You want to cap someone?”

  “Myself.”

  “Right, right,” the man said, smiling. It took Buy a moment to catch the insinuation. “Something powerful but disposable. Right?”

  “In the sense I only need it once, yes.”

  He unlocked a cabinet between them and hoisted a pistol. “This is a Vektor Z88, nine millimeter. Powerful at close range, simple to operate, doesn’t make a lot of noise, and on the cheap side. This what you’re after?”

  “I don’t care about the cost.”

  The man made the Vektor disappear. “Then you should take a look at this baby right here.” He slapped a gun on the desk. It was sleeker and looked more powerful than the Vektor. Buy picked it up and weighed it in his hand. “A Colt .45, fully automatic. Extremely reliable, American-made, can make a man’s head disappear from two hundred feet.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “I know, you don’t need long-range. But if you want power and reliability, this baby has it in spades. The accuracy is a bonus.”

  “How much?”

  “For you, three thousand,” the man said. “And I’ll throw in a case of bullets and some cleaning solution.”

  Buy handed over his AmEx. “Keep the solution.”

  The man wrapped the Colt in white paper, then put it in a box. “And, in case you were wondering, this model has no serial number.” He winked.

  “Just give me the gun,” Buy said.

  He parked his Saab in the apartment block’s underground area and got out. Without thinking, he locked it; it only occurred to him in the elevator how pointless that was. He should have left it on the street with the motor running.

  The apartment was neat and quiet: his cleaning service had been in. Buy dragged a huge leather armchair over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city lights. They stared back at him. He began unwrapping his gun.

  He was struck with the thought that the assassin—whoever had killed the girl, Hayley—must have done this, must have acquired a gun and loaded it with bullets. It didn’t seem right to Buy that it was so easy. He looked at the Colt, feeling disgusted. Then he put the barrel in his mouth.