by Myers, Kelly
“My company isn’t exploring space to inhabit a new planet. Escaping reality is a loser’s dream. I still have faith in this one. I still believe that we can rise above the reprehensible repercussions of human nature and create a better world right here. If only we truly free ourselves from the illusion of liberty that keeps us captive in our own lives. Once we hold the true criminals accountable for their actions, then can we really thrive.”
Now he’s trying to sound like a philosopher.
“I take my business very seriously. And no, I don’t get to sleep for seven hours straight. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day.”
I shake my head. “You’d think that a bright mind like Palanick would find a more original persona to present. Instead, he’s borrowing a page from every other great man’s book.”
“Why? Who does he sound like?” Michael turns to me with a mildly curious look on his face.
“Everyone? Liberals, dreamers, genius innovators, fierce businessmen and saintly philanthropists,” I scoff. “He’s all over the place.”
“Or,” he tilts his head. “you find him challenging to profile because he doesn’t fit a single, clearly preconceived stereotype.”
Michael’s words ring inside my head… over and over again.
11
Gabriel
Ramone gets back to me with the unfortunate news that Dina Cormack wouldn’t honor our request. He explains that she doesn’t appreciate the secrecy and won’t accept a meeting without knowing exactly who she’s meeting and where.
My blood boils.
People normally kill for a meeting with a high-ranking executive at Palanick Holding. If I can count the number of times someone tried to get their hands on my direct number or schedule an appointment with one of VPs or me, I’d spend the rest of my days counting.
The ungrateful witch.
But that’s fine.
I spend all day at the office, conducting meetings and attending presentations. When it’s time for my fourth coffee of the day, the clock reads six in the afternoon.
Amanda steps into my office with her tablet device, while Gloria follows her with my cup.
“Here you go, sir,” Gloria places it down in front of me on the desk and immediately steps away with an apprehensive look in her eyes, clearing the stage for Amanda.
“In fifteen minutes, Mr. Oldman will be here for your last appointment,” Amanda recites. “Is there anything else after that?”
I exhale deeply, massaging my right temple with my thumb. “No, thank God. I still have a lot to do, but I think I’ll get it done at home.”
“Y’know,” she folds the cover of her tablet shut, giving me a kind smile. “Taking the office home with you has shown to have some health drawbacks.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” I scoff, picking up the coffee. “Where was this advice when I was twenty-three and hadn’t made a habit of it yet?”
“Better late than never,” she raises an eyebrow and steps back towards the door, lingering. Gloria walks out and leaves us alone.
“It’ll take a lot of work to erase seventeen years’ worth of programming, Amanda.”
“Better start now then.”
“Timing couldn’t be worse,” I take a sip before I lift the cup in the air. “Cheers.”
Pressing her lips into a thin line, Amanda signals her quiet dismay before walking out the door, closing it behind her.
My meeting with Oldman shouldn’t last for more than an hour, so as I wait, I collect my things and neatly arrange them in my bag. Cables, carefully coiled and secured in the inside mesh pocket. Flash drives, neatly lined up in the little mini-pockets perfectly situated along the opposite side of the inner lining. Expanded hard drive, nestled in its padded holster. Pen and notebook, middle fold.
What now remains is my laptop and phone, patiently waiting on the cold surface of my desk. Anticipating the end of another mundane meeting. Holding their breaths for what comes next.
I can’t get that human hiccup called Dina out of my head. You can call me an obsessive man, but what can I do? Such is my nature, and so far, it has been serving me well.
“Mr. Oldman is here,” Amanda soon announces, ushering in the elderly man with his antique walking cane and outdated yet elegantly tailored suit.
“Gabriel,” he smiles, revealing a flawless dental job. “You have a proposal for me,” he sits down, placing his wrinkled hand over his knee.
“Double the regular price to use one of your company’s servers in Sweden. Exclusively, of course.”
“I would have never said ‘no,’ but that last part leaves me baffled.”
“I forecast an attack, and I wouldn’t want anyone else’s data corrupted.”
“Will it be a secondary location?”
“Of course.”
Furrowing his eyebrows, he sits back. “Hand me a sparkling water, will you?”
Without removing my eyes from his face, I reach below and open the mini-bar underneath my desk. I grab a bottle and lean forward, setting it down on the coaster nearest to him.
“I must say,” he twists open the cap, a contemplative look in his eyes. “I don’t wanna turn you down. The last time I did that, we both lost some very lucrative opportunities.”
“You’ve always been a wise man, Elia.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Tonight.”
He chuckles, his face turning red as if he’s about to cough. “A week.”
“Don’t corner me like that. Tomorrow morning?”
“Forty-eight hours at best. I’d be kicking someone very valuable out of bed for you. The least I can do is give them enough time to sort things out.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’d better. Golf tomorrow?”
I nod once. “That’s how grateful I am.”
I loathe golf.
As soon as I arrive home, I instruct that my dinner is to be brought to my bedroom. I am not to be disturbed since I’ll be working, so they should leave the tray on the cart outside the door, knock twice and leave.
Upstairs, I take a slow shower and try to organize my thoughts. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” they said. So, first, I’ll smoke some herb, then I’ll open a fresh bottle of whiskey to maintain the mood as I delve deeper.
Completely naked, I step out of the bathroom after drying myself. I pull open a drawer and pick up the golden pack, drawing out a single joint before closing it and lighting up. The subtle flame soon seeps through the brown paper tip, releasing the first thread of smoke that circles up in the air.
I then pick up the small golden ashtray and remove the cover, walking toward my laptop. As I launch it open, I throw my weight down on the bed, sinking into the plush comforter.
And I begin to type…
During her time at Yale University, Cormack worked as head of the Modern Humanitarian section of her class magazine, where she covered various topics, including human trafficking, sex workers’ rights and child labor in third world countries.
Seems a little off scope right now, given that her current work points to nothing but the world of economy and business.
Upon graduation from Yale, Cormack landed her first full-time job at the New York Journal of Philanthropy and NonProfits. For three years, her work entailed reporting on the latest initiatives and charity endeavors led by some of the country’s most active participants.
Her notable interviewees included Greg Cass, former head of the New York Food Bank; Matilda Roberts, initiator of the Women for Sex Workers movement; David Cobble, founder of Saving the Innocence organization for the rehabilitation of homeless children; and Gina Troverski, spokesperson for the New York Eyes Foundation.
I sense my shoulders tensing up, so I take a long drag, closing my eyes and savoring the raw, soothing flavor of marijuana as it invades my lungs.
God bless America.
“Where did you take a detour to, Didi?” I whisper as I read on.
The gr
in on her face in one of the profile photographs drives me insane. She’s a beautiful woman, granted. But the unjustified certainty in her eyes must have preceded her while working for the finks at the gazette.
For a few years after leaving her role at the Journal, Cormack worked on a freelance basis with a number of NGOs as well as the charity arms of some major corporations. She covered the Education of the Future initiative by the CSR division of Pencley Motor Systems, the Vaccinations on Every Corner campaign by the Collin-Durst hospital, and the Over the Influence free program by the Floyd Foundation, among others.
“Tsk, Didi, Didi, Didi,” I shake my head in amusement, drawing another drag. “You were doing okay in New York. What happened?”
For the past eight years, Cormack has been the shining star of the Business section at the B-Gazette of Boston. She has always stated that her decision to move from New York was to accept the B-Gazette’s offer.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Didi?” I tilt my head, softly chuckling to myself. “Why would you suddenly drop your cause and trade your heart in for a piece of steel like the rest of us?”
Not satisfied with the bits and pieces of information that fail to quench my thirst, I continue to dig deeper through the search results.
Like a teenage stalker in his mother’s basement, I click on every link and follow every lead. I even find her profiles on social media and open numerous browser tabs next to each other, neatly lined up in a row, waiting for my eyes to devour the information they carry.
“Oh, Scorpions?” I mock, staring at the public segment of her profile on one of the popular music streaming websites. “Really?”
I click on the first song I see, repeatedly tapping on the volume button to immerse myself in a tune she clearly enjoys.
“Okay,” I nod a little, narrowing my eyes. “Alright, I see it.”
Letting the music play in the background, I leap to the next page. On the famous social networking platform, I see tagged pictures of her at a party with a lot of children.
“Which one’s yours, Didi?” my eyes scan their little faces. “Nope. No. And this one’s got red hair. Are you secretly a redhead, Didi?” I shake my head before my eyes land on the caption below.
Lily with Maya, Sia and Aunt Dina.
“Oh,” I draw it out with a hint of victory. “No problem.” I click back to her profile and go to the pictures again. There isn’t a single wedding photo there. Not even an engagement ring or ‘He popped the question!’ shots.
Single?
Perhaps that explains it.
“Believe me, Didi, I’m no hater of women. You can’t include me in one of your stories as a raging misogynist or a man with Mommy issues,” I chuckle, taking another hit. “But you’re sure starting to sound like an unsatisfied little girl.”
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
I stare at my joint and wrinkle my eyebrows. “Stop it,” I tell the orange glow that continues to produce the most hypnotic aroma. “I know this is you talking.”
A naïve idealist like herself would never understand why I do the things I do. It’s not my problem that she’s addicted to blindly dedicating her life to causes that she isn’t really committed to tackling.
I shouldn’t pay the price for her misery.
If her team exposes any more about our project, we won’t hear the end of it. It would all collapse if the users begin to doubt us, and we’ll drown in the bureaucracy of boycotts and lawsuits. I should nip this in the bud before the rest of the world starts questioning my intentions.
Bouncing to another tab, I land on her personal blog. It looks like nobody has tended to this poor little portal in a long time, since the latest entry on there is a few years old, titled, ‘The Faces of Dennis Recario: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.’
Recario is a world-renowned businessman and pioneer. The technologies his company helped develop remain essential tools in today’s mainstream automation and digitization industries. He was also a very respected man until his secret hobby of fraternizing with underage foreign girls exploded a few years ago, rendering him obsolete, despite his acquittal in court. After the scandal, he stepped down from his position as CEO, sold his shares and moved to retire on his private island in the Caribbean.
It must have been a moral blow for ardent little Didi back then.
As I skim through the blog post that goes on to detail the unorthodox practices of bad Mr. Dennis, I pick up the phone and check for messages from Patel. There’s nothing new, so I text him.
Any updates? Anything on a personal level?
A minute later, he responds.
Nothing significant to report. But your name does come up more than the usual rate in some chats on a few messaging platforms, irrelevant to mainstream news.
Care to share?
Some people are really trying to dig up dirt on you. They’re not finding anything substantial.
Are you implying that there is something to be found?
Not that I know of. But now would be the time to fess up before I accidentally learn about it.
You’re a funny man, Patel. Good night.
Good night, boss.
Shaking my head, I realize that the headache that has been plaguing me all day is finally beginning to subside. I relight my joint and take another drag, long and deliberate before I text Ramone.
Code red on Dina Cormack. Bring her to me, even if she has to be dragged here kicking and screaming.
12
Dina
Another long day at the office with Derek and me staying there until late at night, working on his latest piece. Surrounded by piled-up takeout boxes and a few empty coffee cups, I bend my neck until I hear it crack. “What’s the time?” I stretch my arms.
“Almost midnight,” he regretfully informs me, lifting up his gaze from his laptop. “Maybe we should call it a day.”
“Well,” I stand up, shaking my leg that fell asleep. “I’ll give it another look at home and share the final with you and Duvall.”
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, folding his laptop shut. “I knew it was a heavy piece, but this—”
“Is a man who’s good at covering his tracks,” I interrupt with a shrug, aiming to put his mind at ease. “Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it.”
“I know.”
“I gotta use the bathroom first,” I hang my bag and purse over my shoulder and head out of the office. “See you tomorrow.”
“See yah. Drive safe.”
I go into the bathroom, and my reflection in the mirror startles me. The circles around my eyes and the paleness of my skin remind me that I didn’t sleep well last night, nor did I finish my dinner—a cold clump of chow mein that’s now waiting for the cleaning crew to toss away.
Splashing some water onto my face, I try to refresh my senses before the drive home. I go into the stall to rid my body of the remnants of three coffee cups and the can of soda I alternated between all day.
Walking out, I hum a tune that suddenly popped into my head. I march through the long corridor and into the elevator, which takes me down to the parking lot, where my car is the only vehicle remaining.
I dig through the purse to find my keys, blindly pressing the button that unlocks the doors. The car lights flicker, and I hear the brief tune as I pull out the keys and head over to settle behind the wheel.
The drive home is almost a daze, with the only thing keeping me awake is the music coming from the midnight radio show that plays classic rock songs.
“And with AC/DC, we go back to a time—”
Sighing sharply, I mutter to myself. “A time where more work awaits.”
I abruptly shut off the presenter’s voice with a push on the power button as I park the car by the sidewalk. Opening the door, I keep it ajar with my left hand as I lean toward the passenger’s seat, my right hand grabbing the handles of my two bags.
Suddenly, a strong grip takes hold of my left arm, crudely pulling me out.
“What?”
I yelp before a palm with thick fingers covers my mouth. I try to kick backward, but I have been missing so many workouts lately that my muscles aren’t exactly strong. I feel weightless as the person behind me lifts me up in the air, kicking my legs in random flailing motions.
Terrified, I try to look around. A man dressed in black, a surgical mask and dark sunglasses—in the middle of the night—opens the passenger’s door and picks up my laptop bag, stuffing my phone in it. With his other hand, he grabs my purse.
That’s the last thing I see before a dark cover is placed over my head—a thick fabric bag of sorts. I hear my car announcing lock activation and my keys jingle in someone else’s hand while I’m being carried away. I try to scream, but the palm instantly returns, plastering my lips together once again.
I’m rolled around and seated onto a chair that doesn’t feel like a car seat. A belt is wrapped around my waist and another over my arms, securing them in place. As I hear a gliding door shut, I realize that I’m in a van of sorts. The engine whirrs, and the vehicle vibrates before it starts moving.
“What the fuck?” I finally find my voice again.
“You’re safe.” A man’s voice reaches me. He’s clearly sitting in front of me. “But I can’t make the same promise if you attempt to move or scream. There’s a gun pointed at you right now, so be wise, Ms. Cormack.”
“Safety and blindfolds, kinky,” I scoff. “Are you the man who called me the other day?”
“If it makes you feel better, let’s go with that.”
“How about we go with the truth?”
“The truth is that a very brilliant man wants to have a conversation with you. And he did ask nicely.”
“You work for Palanick.”
“For?” he scoffs. “No. That’s not the culture in which my employer is interested. I work with people.”
“Palanick Holding.”
“Names are of no consequence here.”
