by Ed Miracle
The authorities would surely come for them, as they would come for Karen. Six years ago, when they first met, her mossy-green eyes had probed him like a jeweler searching for flaws. She was everything a marketing executive should be: smart, adept, and tenacious. Now 44, she’d sold 55 million Powerpods, world-wide, and still presented herself as a classic Mediterranean diva. She was everything he wanted in a woman but could not have.
How could he possibly protect her? Loiter in the East Bay and wait to get arrested with her? He shook his head.
Altimeter, Set. Display, Ground Mode. Engine Start Air, 2,000 psi.
He needed her so desperately. Needed to know she would be safe. But since he’d made his announcement, she wasn’t answering his calls or texts. Maybe her daughter would help. He keyed his Cambiar internet phone, hoping Tiffany Lavery would respond. Electronic tones played five times, then six. His thumb poised itself until the petulant face of his favorite teenager appeared in his hand.
“Tiffany, how are you?”
“What do you want, Philip?”
“I need to reach your mother.”
“She’s downstairs, auditioning martinis. She can’t hear me yakking in the closet, sitting on a pile of shoes.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not. She got your notes, but she’s not going to reply. Your big surprise chopped her off at the knees, you know. She pretty much hates you.”
He nodded, more than aware. “I don’t blame her, but we need to talk. Can you put her on your phone?”
“Then she’d hate me, too.”
“I need to explain, Tiff. Help her see what she needs to do.”
“She’s counting on her new boyfriend, the hotshot attorney from San Francisco.”
“Terry Quinn doesn’t have the horsepower to shield her from what’s coming. It won’t be just subpoenas and lawsuits. She needs to disappear until Makers—”
“She won’t go anywhere, not with you. And she won’t hide, either. She’s sending me to Grandma’s.”
“That’s good, that’s good. I think she doesn’t appreciate the magnitude—”
“Philip, she’s downstairs throwing a double-PMS hissy fit because of you. She’s not going to listen to you or me anytime soon. So don’t . . . . Oh, shit. She’s coming upstairs.”
“Call me,” he said. “Tomorrow. Please.”
The connection dropped, and he pounded his knee. He needed to apologize to her, to explain, to help her escape. Which was why he was lingering at the ranch, daring the world to show up with cameras and warrants and handcuffs, while Tanner trucked their gear south.
Behind Pleasanton ridge, a murky sunset was collecting its colors to leave. To his right, a column of baby thunderheads extended eastward over the hills. He would love to switch on his variometer and go thermal-hunting over there. Soar engine-off, like a natural-born hawk, on slender red wings, just for the joy of it. But one by one, twilight was stealing his options.
Clear the Area, Check. Throttle, Set for start. Engine Sequencer, Ready.
He pressed the START icon, and the baby turbofan behind his seat whooshed up to an urgent idle.
He must not pursue Karen Lavery, nor any woman. He must avoid attachments. Though he had already attached, hadn’t he? Exposed himself to another unacceptable loss. He needed to store his feelings for her on that mental shelf he reserved for future projects. He could admire her up there as often as he wished, examine her in detail, and invite her into his dreams, but always from a safe distance.
Oil Pressure, Green. Lights and Beacons, On. Flaps, 10 degrees.
If he couldn’t control his feelings, “She pretty much hates you” might bring down the whole shebang. His attempts to help the woman he loved would only imperil the advent. Because Makers were just the beginning. If the advent failed, his deeper project would die stillborn. His father’s legacy would not survive the terrible fire that had killed him, and the world would collapse into chaos for which he, Philip, would forever be blamed.
This is not a stunt, folks. Time to figure it out.
He released his brakes, turned his little red plane into the wind, and shoved the throttle full forward.
FOUR
Tracy, California. Monday, April 20
Day Three
Just after dawn, Everett copied a fuel can and filled his motorcycle with free gas, which was pretty cool. But his westward commute was disgustingly normal. He rolled with the herd, up the treeless Altamont Pass and down through Livermore valley. Then up Dublin Grade on the west side, descending at last through a brushy gap that revealed San Francisco Bay.
Despite his weird weekend, nothing had changed. Suburbia sprawled as dormant and oblivious as ever. Beneath a vaporous sun, commuters still commuted, as if they always had and forever would. At Castro Valley, when the freeway angled north, he caught a twinkling glimpse of the bay.
Oakland Shoes-for-You didn’t open until ten, so he kept to lane speed and did not split ahead. Arriving early, he maneuvered into his spot across from the store. He dismounted and stretched. Up and down Grand Avenue, from the hillside condos in the north to the old Grand Lake Theater down by the freeway, a hazy sheen of normalcy clung to everything and everyone.
Across the avenue, General Johnson was cranking his security curtain into its recess. Even from a distance, it was clear why people called him General, and why they were delighted to learn it was truly his name. Despite a silvery frost on the man’s black hair, Everett could imagine him still in his Navy uniform, straight and vigorous. Military bearing, Bobby called it. Everett suspected General Johnson had possessed it as a child. The Abouds and the Johnsons were neighbors once, in a different part of town, in a different time, before his mother took off for Calgary.
“Looks to be a fine day,” General said when Everett joined him inside. “How is Admiral Aboud?”
“He sends his thanks for the work.”
General nodded. He unlocked the register and slid a change tray into its drawer.
In the back room, Everett stripped off his leathers and sweatshirt. He donned a Shoes-for-You T-shirt, hung up his riding gear, and joined his boss at the counter.
“Cops across the street,” General said.
Everett peered.
Two officers holstered their pistols in front of the jewelry store next to the bar where Everett parked his motorcycle. A third officer stood at the store entrance, arguing with a fat man in a beige suit. The officers soon departed and traffic resumed on the avenue.
“Looks like Alonso is okay,” General said. “He’s never been robbed before, if you can imagine that, in Oakland.”
Everett shrugged. “Maybe it’s not a robbery.”
The beige suit noticed them, waved as if he were dusting a shelf, and retreated into his shop. General snorted.
“I’ll get it out of him later. Here’s your chore for the morning.” He laid a scanner on the counter. “I inventoried the storeroom, so I want you to do the sales floor.”
“Display items too?”
“No, they’re from the storeroom.” General unfolded his ancient laptop computer and turned his back.
Half an hour later, a woman in a culinary uniform herded three young boys into the store and made them sit. Shoes-for-You was self-serve, with most of its stock on the sales floor, but General was always friendly and helpful. The lady beamed as he approached her.
“Baseball,” she said, indicating the oldest boy, “and cross trainers for these two.”
General showed her the sports shoes and helped the kids fit proper sizes. When Everett looked up again, the lady was departing, and her boys were hop-dodging in new footgear.
As they left, the pudgy jeweler entered, carrying a leather case. He held the door for the woman then rushed to the counter.
General greeted him. “Alonso, what happened? We saw police.”
Alonso searched the room, glowering as if someone had kicked his dog. He acknowledged Everett as an employee before replying.
&n
bsp; “It’s counterfeit, General. I came to warn you. Don’t take any cash. The bastards got me, and the cops can’t touch them.”
“Alonso, sit down.” General offered his stool.
Alonso flopped his case onto the counter. “Here,” he said, “Look at this.” He scooped a sheaf of currency and thrust it at his friend. “I should have known.”
Everett drew closer as General fanned the bills playing-card style.
“Coffee stains?”
“That’s how I noticed too. But those are just the pearls I sold. Here are the diamond earrings.” He waved a clip of bills. “Even Connie’s painting—I sell my wife’s paintings.” He waved a pair of fifties.
“It was such a good morning. Everybody paid cash. Then, when I figured it out, here comes a guy with a stack of hundreds, bold as a red bocce ball. I pressed my alarm, and the bum took off. It was all I could do to keep from punching him in the mouth, the son-of-a-bitch. It had to be more counterfeit. For all I know, every penny I took in today is counterfeit.”
His expression soured.
“You can’t spot the phonies until you see a duplicate serial number. And it’s everywhere. The news said the cops can’t handle all the calls. When they came for my alarm, they told me not to bother them, that I should notify the Secret Service in San Francisco. But their number is busy too. You don’t even get voicemail, just that stupid buzzing. My insurance company—their line says go to their website.”
General opened his register and found identical fifties and twenties. “Damn. She was just somebody’s momma.”
“You’d better close up, my friend. Go home like me, until they stop these bastards.”
General shook his head. “We can’t, Alonso. At least you have insurance. We have to make up our losses by selling more sneakers.”
The jeweler lowered his voice. “It’s going to get worse, my friend.”
“Yeah?”
“Today a few are doing it. Tomorrow it will be thousands, then millions. Nobody can stop them because anyone can do it. I’m so stupid. Last night—saints forgive me—I copied some things, just to show my foolish head this is possible. I should have known.”
“Sit down, Alonso. What are you talking about?”
Alonso didn’t sit. From the case, he withdrew a sparkling waterfall of diamonds.
“Finest necklace I ever designed. Isn’t it beautiful? The materials alone cost thirty-five thousand. But it’s a copy. Perfect in every way. Real platinum, real stones. I could have sold it for fifty thousand, sixty maybe. I should have sold it to one of those damn counterfeiters because I got it from the machine behind my porch.”
“Say what?”
“My Powerpod. Don’t you have one?”
“Sure, but—”
“You put cones on your Powerpod, and then you copy things. Anything at all. Do you know what this means, General? You and I are out of business. We are wiped out. People who sell things that other people make, we are ruined. Anybody can copy anything, so nobody has to buy. Everything is free. Costs you nothing. Just put something in your cone, push the button, and presto—there’s your copy.” Perspiration streaked his face.
“Alonso, you’re upset. I’d buy you a cappuccino, but I can’t leave the store. We’ll just have to stop taking cash until they catch the crooks.”
“They won’t, General.” Alonso shook his head as he put away his treasure. “They can’t. In a few days, there won’t be any customers either. Just vultures looking for fresh swag to copy. You and I are destroyed, don’t you see? They are going to copy your shoes. They will copy them and give them away, or trade them, or sell them for half what you paid, and your business will die.” He grabbed General’s wrist.
“I came to warn you, old friend. It’s too crazy for your head right now. You don’t understand. But you will.” Tears welled in his eyes.
“Alonso, you okay? Let me show you some Italian slip-ons, better than Gucci’s.”
“Thank you, General. I’m all right. You take care of yourself. Watch the news. They will tell us what’s happening.”
The fat man shut his case and trudged away. Across the avenue, his windows stood dark and empty. His security curtain was down and locked.
After he left, General found a marker and made a sign from a box lid. Everett nailed this high on the post behind the counter. “NO CASH—Cards or Checks Only.”
Descending from the ladder, Everett confessed. “I should have said something earlier. I wasn’t sure, but now I am. I think you should take your cash right away and put it in the bank, all of it before it’s too late.”
“You knew about this?” His father’s best friend waved counterfeit in his face. Everett met his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure.”
General Johnson knew baloney when he heard it, and his scowl said so. Everett took a breath and tried to explain.
“How do you tell people that something impossible just happened? Over the weekend something changed, and you’re not sure what it means. You don’t want to be Chicken Little, crying counterfeit is coming! Counterfeit is coming! Who would believe you?”
General returned to his stool and glared while Everett told him about testing his Maker. Like most people, the Johnsons had ignored Philip Machen’s advertising and hadn’t watched his infomercial. As Everett finished, General was shaking his head.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have believed you before this.” He shook the bills. “Or before Alonso. This had better not be some elaborate hoax you and your father cooked up with Alonso.”
“And some woman with three kids,” Everett said.
General frowned. He used his Cambiar to call upstairs. While they waited for Mrs. Johnson to join them, he said, “Did you ever wonder why this is the only store on the block with living quarters on the second floor? In the old days, before telephones, it was a funeral parlor, and the director lived upstairs, in case business showed up during the night, which I guess it did. Kind of like your Maker machines.”
Mrs. Johnson had always been healthy and cheerful, but today she descended the stairs with a limp and a grimace.
“Daddy is asleep,” she said, “so you check him every ten minutes, Gen. Good morning, Everett.”
“Good morning, Charlene.”
“Arthritis,” she said, answering his look.
There was no time to explain why the daily deposit had to be run so early, so General didn’t try. He simply gave her the zippered pouch and a peck on the cheek.
“Drive carefully,” he said, and they watched her depart.
Even for a Monday, sales were slow. By noon they had sold only two more pairs—for credit—and General switched off the shopping music. He tuned his dusty receiver to a news channel, interrupting the bell tones of a news cut-over.
Counterfeit is sweeping the nation, the announcer said. Thieves using counterfeit emptied the vending machines at New York’s Kennedy airport. From Seattle to Miami, coin dealers, pawnshops, and jewelry exchanges had stopped buying or making loans on collectibles, jewelry, tools, firearms, and other easily copied valuables. And everyone, the announcer said, was refusing cash. In Washington D.C., the Treasury Secretary called the situation an international crisis and urged all citizens to defer cash transactions until a solution could be found.
General switched it off. He sagged onto his stool.
“Maybe Chicken Little was right.”
A slender young woman in clingy gray slacks and a plunging black blouse entered from the storeroom. She strode to the counter, pressing a Cambiar to her ear.
“Dammit, answer me. Pick up the phone.” She stopped at the ladder and regarded Everett as if he were a blob of used chewing gum. “Who’re you?”
General stood.
“Marcy, meet an old family friend. Everett Aboud, this is my niece, Marcy Johnson.”
Everett’s brain melted. He searched for a clever word, but when he dropped a shoulder and said, “W’sup,” she laughed.
“Say, Home Boy.”
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He cringed and hoped she wouldn’t notice. In the presence of a slinky brown goddess, he had revealed his inner jerk. Still in jerk mode, he offered his hand, just as her focus snapped to her phone.
“Hello? Hello? I don’t have time for stupid voicemail. Pick up, will you please?” She strangled the instrument. Then she accepted Everett’s hand and liquefied his brains with a thousand-volt smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the sparkle in her glance made it true. “It’s just that I have this interview in an hour, and I don’t have a cameraman. My regular’s gone to L.A. and no one else is answering.”
Everett didn’t know about interviews, but— “I do cameras.”
“Commercial videos?”
“Sure.” He shrugged the lie into submission.
“This is not your sister’s birthday or your cousin’s wedding. I need a pro here. That’s pro, as in Steady-cams, dolly setups, and two-camera interview splits. You gotta handle the audio too.”
Again he shrugged. “I can do that.”
He looked to General, pleading, while Marcy jiggled her keys.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re temporary. Until somebody returns my calls. But you don’t get scale unless your work is up to par, do you understand? Otherwise, you get a cheese sandwich, if you’re lucky.” She addressed her uncle. “Can I borrow this hotshot, or do you need him?”
“We need him.”
“He can go,” Mrs. Johnson overruled from the storeroom door. “If it’s important to Marcy, we can manage without Everett for an afternoon. For an interview? With whom?”
A customer entered through the avenue door, setting off a chime. Marcy licked her perfect teeth.
“Can’t say until we’re done, Auntie, but you’ll be proud when I go national tonight. If New Guy here doesn’t screw up.”
