FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

  “Hey, that’s one fantastic plane you guys have got there, Mr. Atherton. Thanks a million for having Mr. Parker pick us up.”

  “It’s our pleasure; don’t mention it. Glad you guys could travel on such short notice—the both of you. And from my end, as to the pro-forma stuff we’re here to sign, I did my best to arrange everything we’ll likely need to get our project underway—That regiment behind you, Rajiv—the people you smiled at coming in, in case they didn’t fill you in—Those are our ad men and finance men, and—Oh, these shifty fellows here behind my back—they’re the company’s legal team. They’ll keep everything on the up and up—and keep our dealings equitable for all concerned, I can solemnly promise you that.”

  Ben looked up and right at Kellerman, who was standing just behind his shoulder on his right-hand side, then glanced a wee bit farther right at Bobby Gladstone, junior partner in the firm, right beside the boss himself, and standing just a foot or two in front of Alex Daugherty’s chair. Rajiv stood up and reached across the desk to shake their hands. The kid was friendly and engaging, but the lawyers weren’t quite as cordial as they might have been. They were grim-faced, sullen—overtired, maybe, Ben figured at first. But then, Ben recalled, Kellerman and Gladstone were always grim and sullen, ever since he’d known them. Every lawyer he’d ever dealt with was pretty much that way—unless you were lucky enough to find him drunk.

  Ben, his curiosity aroused, looked up again and caught a glimpse of Gladstone out of the corner of an eye—just a little glimpse, mind you—then turned his head around a little more and took a careful look at Kellerman. They were peering at each other smirking. Strange: A sort of wry, sarcastic look with a suspicious sneering in their smiles.

  Rajiv had let go Gladstone’s hand and was in the process of sitting down again, and as he settled in his seat, Ben slid his chair back and put one knee up to the desk, turning a little sideways rightward so as to study his two legal counselors in a bit more scrutinizing detail.

  Interesting: They were—yes, that was it—the two of them were glancing over at Alex, then at one another, then back at Alex again—who, on his part, seemed completely unaware of their attention. They wore weird expressions on their faces, not very nice expressions, honestly. Like cats, Ben thought. The predatory looks, the predatory instincts of felines on the hunt: All the lawyers he’d ever dealt with had worn those looks at one time or another: glum and sullen cats. They’d never seen Alex before, didn’t know him from Adam, didn’t know him from Diddly-squat. But lawyers have a sense about the weak and vulnerable in the self-same way that cats do. And it occurred to Ben just there, just then, that he’d made these kids a solemn promise they’d be treated fair and square. It occurred to Ben just then, just there, that Alex was every bit as vulnerable as any wounded creature ever cornered by a hungry cat…. And it struck him that he’d better double check those binding contracts—just to be a hundred percent sure.

  It was the standard form—that’s what he’d ordered up last night; and it would be a pretty distant stretch for the legal team to disobey specific orders—especially orders coming from the top. But there’d been that issue a year or so ago with Dottie Clark after her husband Raymond had died and named her his executor and principal heir, and so….

  Ben smiled across at Rajiv, tacitly excusing himself for a sec. He looked down at the papers on his desk, and casually shuffled through. This stuff was rote to him by now; he could glimpse a word and know the entire paragraph, glimpse a paragraph and know the whole damn page. Anything even a fraction of a syllable out of the purely formulaic jumped up and grabbed him like a pebble in one’s shoe. Ben leafed, he scanned, he read…. And on Page four, Section five, Article two, Paragraph one—he came across the something that he’d been pretty darn positive he wouldn’t find. And when he found it, he called out:

  “Hey Gerry!”

  Kellerman was two feet from his chair and there beside his elbow in a flash. Too hasty of a flash, in fact. He must have had a premonition.

  “What’s this, Gerry? Here, halfway down the page—You see it? Article two, first paragraph. Look here.”

  “I know, Ben. Just some additional protection for you—For the firm, I mean—Like we did on the Clark purchase, remember?”

  “I had you undo the article on the Clark purchase, don’t you remember?”

  They were speaking softly, and with all the clamor in the room, it would be difficult for anyone to overhear the conversation—Rajiv included, for Eddie had stepped over in the interim and was chatting with the boy about something or someone they were referring to as ‘vi’.

  Kellerman stammered: “Against my advice, Ben. I was strongly in favor of that clause when you bought Clark Industries from Raymond Clark’s heirs.”

  “Not ‘heirs’, Gerry. Heir. And her name is Dotty, a sweet lady with lots of wrinkles and orange hair. You advised against it, I remember, but you don’t run things here at Atherton, do you? It isn’t in your province to make ultimate decisions, is it?”

  “No, but….”

  “Did I or did I not instruct you to protect these two kids’ interests as carefully as you’d protect the firm’s?”

  “You did, but it’s incumbent on us to look after the firm’s interests first.”

  “Why? Why us more than the people we’re doing business with? Because we pay you more?”

  “Not just that, no….”

  “Here—Bend down here. I want to tell you something quietly in private.”

  Kellerman bent. Ben whispered, but it was a harsh whisper, cacophonously shrill.

  “I’m going to cross this article out in all of the copies; I’m going to write ‘delete’ across it, initial it, and I want you to initial it too—You understand?”

  “Against my advice, though.”

  “Listen, Gerry,” Ben whispered harshly. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your advice—and please excuse my Rabelaisian French if it offends you. These kids are wide-eyed innocents, OK? They trust us. They didn’t bring a team of high-priced legal experts with them. But I did, and it’s incumbent on me to protect their interests the way I protect the firm’s. Now round up all the copies of the contract, cross out Article Two the way I said, initial the deletion, give them to me for my initials, and get the fuck out of my office. Then send me your final invoice, and you and I are through.”

  “Through? What do you mean ‘through’, Ben? I … I just did what I thought was best for the company. Look, let’s sit down and discuss this later, OK? Let’s you and I….”

  “Do what I told you, Gerry. Bring me the rest of the copies to initial, and get the hell out. The room’s too crowded anyway. Take your goddamn legal team and leave.”

  Kellerman didn’t argue anymore. He made a sort of humble bow, took up the contracts scattered on the desk and in the hands of a couple of the legal aides, made the deletions, initialed them, gave them back to Ben for his initials, and left, taking a good thirty percent of the occupants of the room along with him. With which most of the random clamor in the place became refreshingly serene.

  Rajiv, of course, had noticed all of this commotion by now—Alex seemed opaque, however, still mutely staring down at the bland beige carpeting and embracing his laptop—And once the legal team’s departure was complete, Rajiv leaned forward toward the desk, elbows on the wood, and asked:

  “So—anything the matter, Mr. Atherton? Are we still good to go?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just a little wrinkle in the contract I had to iron out. I’m going to have one of our own in-house people go over it all with you two nice kids before you sign. But everything’s just what we agreed upon last night. We’ll explain it to you and maybe then you can explain it to Alex—He’s, umm—He’s kind of in his own little world most of the time; I’m getting that impression.”

  “Oh, maybe he seems that way right now, Mr. Atherton, but Alex picks up on everything. He doesn’t show it, but he’s kinda like one of those security cams that’s always on, always recording.
You’d be amazed by all the stuff you think he doesn’t see that winds up sticking in his head.”

  Ben smiled and thought: Yes, he would be amazed. He’d be amazed if Alex so much as opened his mouth or fixed his gaze on anyone or anything discernible. He’d be amazed if Alex loosened his arms about that lap top. He’d be amazed if Alex showed up some glorious day in presentable clothing instead of that tattered clown suit he had on this morning: The buttoned-to-the-neck plaid shirt ink-stained at the pocket bottom, the tattered khaki slacks, the ratty sports shoes half-untied, the dangling off-white socks that must have been purer white many weeks or months ago, but failed to maintain their whiteness anymore.

  Nor was that the worst of Alex Daugherty’s gaucherie of dress, no sir—because there were the food stains as well, the greasy, cheese-and-red-sauce smear right across the pant leg at the bottom of the fly, so obvious and offensive you’d think the kid had just been peeing blood. And maybe he had been—Gawd! Maybe this whole fantastic deal hinged on a mute, cancerous computer genius who might not live to see the project through. But Ben was a steadfast optimist at heart, and there was only a measly fifty million on the line, and so….

  And so he signed at the required places, having already initialed the deleted act, and passed the stack of contracts to Rajiv who would be clued in to the details of the deal before the day was done. They chatted for a while, not unpleasantly, for Rajiv was a pretty pleasant guy to have the chance to chat with.

  Rajiv had seen him on TV a hundred times, he said, and he answered:

  “Well it’ll be you kids next. Once the project gets underway, you’ll be making appearances on the business channels too.”

  “So—You really think our website is a go?”

  “I don’t think, young man. I know. Unless there’s something hidden in the details I’m unaware of, you kids have got another Facebook ready to explode.”

  “That big, you think? Really? So … you guys are genuinely willing to put up that huge amount of cash you said we’d need? That ought to really get us off the ground.”

  “Oh, I’ll get you off the ground all right. You do your computer wizardry, and we’ll take care of all the rest.”

  “We’ll do our part, sir, I promise. We’ll hire some more staff right away and try to find a bigger place to work in, and…. So—When can we expect the financing to be available?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Rajiv; just send my firm the bills until the credit line goes through.”

  “That’s great, sir. That’s wonderful. You don’t know how happy Alex is going to be with the arrangement. This is a dream come true for him, you know?”

  “I’m glad, Rajiv; it’s a win-win for all concerned—So, tell me: what else can I do for you two nice kids while you’re in Red Bank? You’re staying the night, right? No need to rush home this evening; the plane will fly you back whenever you say. You want to take a limo into the City and see a show? Have a lobster dinner? Take a walk along the beach? What?”

  “No, sir,” said Rajiv. “We don’t want to cause you any inconvenience.”

  “You can take the copter if you like. Manhattan from the air is really something incredible to see. Or how about a show in Atlantic City? I can make a call and get you front row, center stage.”

  “I … I don’t think Alex would go for that, though. Not for either one.”

  “So,” offered Ben, glancing over at blank-faced Alex with a genuinely sympathetic smile, “what would our brilliant FaceMate guru like to do then? You guys are my guests and anything you’d like, just ask. Just name it and it’s done.”

  And then something very odd happened: Alex actually looked up and met Ben’s gaze directly. He didn’t smile. He didn’t show the slightest facial recognition or expression, truthfully, just that same dull Botox-paralytic look. He didn’t respond directly to Ben; he likely was incapable of that. What he did do was speak quietly to Rajiv. Quietly—so quietly that one might think the two of them were alone in the room communing solely between themselves. And what he said so quietly that it was very difficult to hear, was:

  “I like this guy, Rajiv. Let’s get his picture and I’ll scan it in.”

  8

  Cruising altitude, 28,000 feet.

  A little bumpy getting up, not much taste for conversation with all the jostling to and fro. But once the cloud bank of New Jersey had been cleared and the sun shone bright upon the wings, good old Rajiv Patel got talkative again. All three kids had slipped into the same three seats they’d sat in on the journey out, Rajiv right next to Eddie in the pair of seats facing the cockpit door, Vi immediately behind him over his shoulder facing aft, and way in the back, just like yesterday, slumped Alex the Mute, Alex the Lump. Who must have blown a vocal cord from overtaxing it in Ben’s office on those sixteen syllables he’d managed to expend; so he was quiet as a dormant mouse for the duration, while Vi read a while and dozed, and Rajiv stayed wide awake and talked.

  Vi had a fresh new People Mag to read, along with an Us, an Enquirer, and a Star. Bought them at the Monmouth Mall, along with a phony ostrich leather purse with not-quite matching belt, a couple of mock-designer dresses (emphasize the ‘mock’), and two pairs of primo pre-stressed jeans. Rajiv had handed her some fifties to spend, but Eddie saw fit to leave a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills on the limo seat to keep her occupied while the papers were being signed. Better than having her grab a taxi back and run up to the office while the deal was getting done. Christ!—If Benny caught a glimpse of blond-haired Vi and went into another fit of funk in memory of sainted Liz, the way he’d done the last time he’d seen a perky twenty-something girl like her up close—No, too much business to be done this summer: A week without Benny at the helm, and they’d be way too far behind.

  So Alex sat incommunicado, as usual, Vi leafed a little through her trashy magazines—getting the latest scoop on which celebs were having deviant sex and how often and with whom. But in no time at all, she was dozing again with her neck contorted toward the headrest, and the two of them—Eddie and Rajiv—were for all intents and purposes alone and free to talk in privacy. Which they consequently did. Thus:

  Eddie: “So—let me ask you, Rajiv: What exactly did your buddy Alex mean by what he said back in the office—do you know?”

  “What he said? Like the stuff about Mr. Atherton? Like getting a picture, you mean?”

  “Yeah; I guess he meant Ben. He’s pretty cryptic in his speech, your colleague Alex is, wouldn’t you say? He doesn’t talk a lot, and when he does get something out, it’s kind of hard to tell exactly what he means.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t. I understand him well enough.”

  “So tell me then: What the hell was he getting at?”

  “About the picture, right—is that what you’re asking, Mr. Parker? Well, I’m pretty sure he meant just what he said. He wants Mr. Atherton to send a picture in for him to try and get a match. I think—between you and me—” Rajiv whispered, though there was no need at all for him to whisper; neither Alex nor Vi were in the least little bit attentive to their conversation—“I think Alex wants to show him how terrific our program works.”

  “Well, hell, if a plain old picture’s what he’s asking for, just pick up any business magazine and there’s probably a photo of Ben in there. I mean, I can send you some publicity shots if you want, but all you need to do really, is pick up a Business Weekly or maybe the Economist for the past few months. Ben’ll be in there, guaranteed—And, by the way, pal, no more of this ‘Mr. Parker’ foolishness, OK? Call me Eddie. Shit, even the kids who park my car in valet call me Eddie, so I’m not gonna tolerate any of those ‘Mr. Parkers’ from an up-and-coming billionaire like you.”

  “OK, sure, then, Eddie it is. And I’ll do what you say about the pictures, Mr.— um … Eddie. I’ll pick up some business magazines tomorrow, but … honestly” (whispering again) “I think what Alex was really asking for was a picture of Ben when he was young—when he was, like, around our age—like me and Alex’s
age. That’s kinda what we’re used to working with in our data base for matches, so….”

  “Ben at your age?” Eddie interrupted, laughing wryly. “Oh hell, Rajiv—that ain’t gonna be happenin’ any time soon, pal. Can’t be done. No fuckin’ way.”

  “It can’t? But….” Rajiv shook his head in manifest puzzlement. “So—I’m kinda confused here—Doesn’t he like the pictures taken of him when he was young?”

  “Like ‘em?—LIKE ‘em!” Eddie laughed right out loud. “Christ! There’s nothing to like. He doesn’t have any pictures of him when he was young like you two genius kids. Even if he tried to come up with a picture from back then, he couldn’t. No, you’re gonna have to use something recent—like I said, the magazines are best—That’s all, though—There’s not a single picture anywhere of Benny when he was a kid.”

  “But…. You’re not serious, right? There’s gotta be something you can get us. I mean—Everybody’s got pictures from when they were young.”

  “Not Ben; not a thing, not a single image that I know of. Nothing from his high school years, nothing from his junior high school years. Maybe his folks have some baby shots, though I doubt it, if he ever got into their closets to weed them out. No, there’s really nothing left, Rajiv—I mean nothing—Ben’s pretty thorough when he sets his mind on something, and when he set his mind to burn those pictures, I’d bet a million bucks to twenty that he burned them all.”

  “Burned them! Wait a minute, Eddie—You’re telling me he—what?!”

  “You heard me, kid. After Lizzie got killed….”

  “Hold on, Eddie. Back up a second, will you? Killed? You said she died, but you never said she got killed. You never really told me what happened to Ben’s girlfriend. So—what did?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?—No, I guess I didn’t. It’s not a lot of laughs for me to talk about, I guess. So—You sure you want to hear the grisly details? It’s not the kind of thing that’s gonna brighten up your day.”

  Rajiv’s swarthy eyes widened perceptibly: