by Ian Bull
“As long as they get their cut, no one will question us for a week.”
I go to Ismael next, at the last monitor. He tracks story submissions. His monitor refreshes with a dozen new buys every few seconds. He turns in his swivel chair. “We’re getting over a hundred submissions a minute, both story ideas and dialogue. “
“I am not surprised.”
“I can’t track all the storylines they submit. There are too many,” Ismael says. He runs his hands through his thinning black hair, yanking out a few tight curls with each pass. If he keeps worrying this much, he’ll be bald before he earns his millions.
A sweaty Douglas walks into the room, dressed in black workout clothes. He sips a green drink—which he insists on making himself at the wet bar in our master suite—straight from his VitaMixer. “Don’t worry, we have thought of everything.”
Min, Ismael, and Elliot turn to Douglas, mesmerized. They don’t worship me in the same way. I’m just the woman who invented this entire game.
Douglas finishes his drink and wipes away a green mustache. “Stories people submit automatically go into a database. Search for the word ‘shark.’ Let’s see how many people think we should feed Julia and Steven to sharks.”
Ismael types into his keyboard and hits return. His screen fills with dozens of submissions. Ismael scrolls through several pages. “It looks like about three hundred and fifty submissions—”
“—That’s three hundred and fifty paid submissions from people who want to see Steven and Julia battle sharks, with no clue of what’s in the first episode. We may start with them naked on a frozen mountain. We can paint them purple and have a Druid priest slice their hearts out inside Stonehenge. Whatever we make them do, someone out there will be thinking it too.”
Ismael’s eyes widen. “We reverse-engineer. We find the submission that best matches what you’re already planning.”
Douglas points at him. “Exactly. And we declare that person the winner and send them money in bitcoin.”
“Can we try some more ideas?” Ismael asks.
“Go ahead,” Douglas says.
“Try ‘raped by aliens,’” Min suggests.
Ismael types and gets an answer. “Ten have those words in the submission.”
“Try ‘baptism by fire,’” Elliot says.
Ismael types and gets another answer. “Four have ‘baptism by fire.’”
“There is nothing new under the sun,” Douglas says.
Their eyes widen as they lean back and look at each other, huge grins on their faces. “It’s sick, bro…it’s ridiculous…dude, this is fucking epic.”
“She’s the wizard who designed all this, gentlemen, not me. Pay attention to her.”
The boys swivel and stare at me now. Sweet Douglas knows that we are a team. That’s why I love him so.
I start with my K-pop star. “Min, you, maintain the app and the sales. I want to know how many people are online at any time, so we can tweak the stories and the price if there’s a drop in interest.”
“I understand.”
I move to my red-haired football fan in the middle. “Elliot, you maintain security. We must stay online but remain impenetrable. No losing money.”
“Firewalls up and running.”
“Hackers will try to get on the servers and recode the game. They’ll submit the same story a million times and try to crash the system.”
“They won’t succeed.”
Douglas wags his finger at him. “They better not.”
Elliot bows his head like a dog who just peed the carpet. Douglas keeps going.
“And if law enforcement ever believes that Steven and Julia really have been kidnapped, governments will get involved. If they do, I will pull the plug and we will disappear, but I’m the only one who will decide if and when that happens. You will keep us secure and keep them guessing until then. Understand?”
Elliot nods at him, then at me.
I move to preppy Ismael in the last chair. His pink shirt is well-ironed today, with a perfect crease down both arms. “Ismael, you maintain the story database. There will be three story submission and dialogue winners a week.”
“How do I pick the best dialogue?” Ismael asks.
“We use keywords that go with the episode we’re already doing. How long will it take to write a program that selects for all that?”
Ismael turns to his keyboard and types so fast I think he must be messing with me. “Give me a keyword for something they will encounter,” Ismael says.
“You’re done already?” I ask.
“The code for most of it was already written. I just cut and pasted it in.”
“In one scene, they will encounter lava,” Douglas says.
“Cool,” Elliot and Min both say.
Ismael types it in and hits return. “There are sixty dialogue submissions with lava.”
“Good. You guys can read one hundred and twenty pages a day between you. If any are similar to what we’re already doing, we’ll declare that person the winner.”
“This feels like real Hollywood,” Ismael says.
Douglas laughs. “It’s the future of entertainment, gentlemen.”
I snap my fingers, and they turn to me like trained puppies reacting to a clicker. I pick up a dry erase marker and write on the whiteboard mounted above Elliot’s monitor. “Our goal is to earn one billion dollars in bitcoin in ten days or less,” I say as I write all the digits out: 1,000,000,000. “That’s one hundred million dollars a day. Min, you said we’d sold about eleven million units so far?”
Min looks at his monitor. “Yes. We make four dollars a download, so we’ve made almost forty-five million dollars so far.”
“Ismael, how much have we made in story submissions?”
Ismael looks at his monitor. “It’s hard to say. Maybe fifteen million?”
I write Day One, Status: 60 million. Then I recap the marker. “We’re sixteen hours into our first day and over halfway to our daily goal. When the first episode drops in two hours, we will skyrocket. I don’t want it to ever lag. No matter how it’s received, we must keep this pace or faster. We pull the plug at a billion dollars. And, if we make it, you boys get one percent each. That’s ten million dollars.”
They spin circle in their chairs, dab fists, snap their fingers, and sing to each other in frat speak. “Hella cool…we got skills…our game’s legit…super-sick way to represent!” The wave of adolescent excitement crests and passes through the room.
“Can we see the first episode?” Min asks.
Douglas clicks a remote. “Of course, you can. It’s ready to air.”
A panel opens above the three computers, revealing a large monitor that powers on. Pulsing tension music begins. Images from the metro train pop on screen. A camera moves through a train car. Peter Heyman is wearing it. Steven Quintana and Julia Travers appear at the other end of the car. Steven runs at the camera as Heyman darts him in the chest. Heyman walks down the aisle, peers under the seat, and darts Julia. The music gets louder. A montage shows Heyman and his cronies blindfolding and gagging Steven and Julia and tossing them in the back of a van. Then, they are carried onto a private jet. The monitor cuts to black, and then infrared night vision cameras show the heat off two bodies, a man and a woman, flailing their arms. It’s Julia and Steven trying to find their way in the darkness.
They find each other and hug. “Where are we?” she whispers.
Steven teaches her how to sleep on her knees and elbows. “I’m scared,” she says. Steven answers, “I’ll get us out of here.”
Heyman’s voice blares, “Good luck with that.” Men descend from the ceiling and jolt them with electricity. Steven smashes his head against the wall as Julia screams. Steven trips one attacker, but the others surround both Steven and Julia and shock them until they submit. Peter Heyman’s voice echoes: “If you wish to escape punishment, then obey.”
Julia screams: ’It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves!
’”
The music climaxes as a bright red title fills the screen: The Danger Game.
Douglas clicks his remote. The monitor turns off, and the panel closes. “That’s just the tease. We’ll finish the full episode soon.”
Min and Elliot elbow each other like half-wit brothers, but Ismael raises a finger. “Where does the game take place?”
“Yeah,” Min adds. “Where are Steven and Julia right now, anyway?”
Douglas clicks his tongue in gentle disapproval. I love it when he does that. “They’re in a distant part of the world. That’s all that’s safe for you to know.”
They grin at each other. These boys like their dangerous adventure.
17
CARL WEBB
Tuesday, March 12, 9:00 a.m. (PST)
California
My phone sits on the coffee table set to speakerphone. Trishelle stands in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed. Over the phone, McCusker’s voice sighs. “So far, we still have no real evidence of a crime.” I imagine him slumping in his mud-gray suit.
“Have you even looked?”
“It’s been less than forty-eight hours, Webb.”
“Have you reached Mendoza in Wisconsin? He’ll confirm everything I told you.”
“He works for you, Webb, not me. You track him down. This is one of six cases I’m working on. And I don’t have time to watch crap on the internet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, just as he hangs up.
“It means no one believes us.”
We’ve been spinning our wheels for a day, working the phones, calling his family, calling her family, convincing McCusker and Gum to visit the train station, finding Steven’s motorcycle, and we’ve made zero progress. I need help.
I follow Trishelle into the kitchen and find fresh coffee and hot waffles with maple syrup. When did she do that? I devour them standing up, making sure I don’t drip on my white shirt. I didn’t realize I was this hungry.
Trishelle plays her guitar while standing in the open sliding glass door.
“Time to leave, babe,” I say, wiping my mouth.
“I’ve been waiting an hour, handsome. That’s when I cooked for you.”
We’re not talking about what’s really on our minds. Last night we watched the first episode of The Danger Game. There was tense music, rushed editing, and slick graphics, which made the whole piece of shit look like fiction.
McCusker believes that it’s fiction, too. That’s why he called it “crap on the internet.” If he believes that it’s crappy fiction, so may everyone else.
I want a text from Mendoza so bad that my phone seems to vibrate in my pocket, but it’s still sitting on the coffee table. I’m getting ghost-texts.
On Friday night, he called and said he had tracked her to yet another motel, alongside a river northeast of Minneapolis. How many rivers are there east of Minneapolis? How many motels? My Miami staff is working on it, but not fast enough.
A boat passes by in the cove outside, and a paparazzo on the bow snaps Trishelle’s picture. She flips him off. She then plays that musical phrase again—and finishes it. She smiles with triumph like she solved a puzzle.
“Does playing music help us find Steven and Julia?”
“No, but neither do your phone calls—or you driving around. You were in the car three hours yesterday.”
“I was doing necessary research.”
“Good for you. Me? I was thinking, which is what this situation requires.”
I pull on my suit jacket and grab the car keys. “Any conclusions?”
She puts the guitar down and grabs the keys from me. “Yes, I found the conclusion to that song,” she says and walks down the hall. “You can ride shotgun.”
Trishelle drives her gray Audi south on Pacific Coast Highway, toward Santa Monica. A carpet of yellow mustard flowers cover the green hills. They won’t turn brown and ignite into terrifying wildfires until later this summer. The ocean looks flat like drywall with a fresh coat of blue paint.
We hit Los Angeles traffic, crowded with commuters sneaking through the canyons to get to the coast and then into the city. Our tension rises with the horn honks.
Trishelle lets loose. “Julia was screaming in pain. Can’t people tell it’s real?”
“Maybe not. Or they like it because it feels so real. But she’s fighting back. And Steven’s responses show he’s doing everything correctly.”
Trishelle spins her head to look at me. “Correctly? They’re not trapped in a math problem.” She swerves into the next lane to avoid smashing into the car ahead of us.
My hand grabs the dashboard as though it’s a brake. “It is a kind of math problem. Even chaos has patterns, and he’s looking for patterns in the madness that he can use to predict an outcome. I just wish we could help him.”
“We help them by finding them and stopping this game.”
“Larry Naythons will talk.”
A Tesla zips in front of us. She slams on her brakes and leans on the horn, which earns her a middle-finger from the driver.
We stay in our lane and stay quiet the rest of the way to Marina del Rey and the sprawling new high-tech offices of Celebrity Exposed. We slip into the loading zone next to the parking structure.
I unbuckle. “Wait here.”
She grabs my forearm. “I’m coming with you.”
“Damn, you’ve got a grip, Trishelle.” I pry her fingers off my jacket and put them back onto her steering wheel. “He’ll recognize you. He printed six issues of you and Julia sunburnt in your bikinis after Steven and I rescued you in the Bahamas. You sold a lot of fish-wrapping for that prick.”
“What about you? You and Steven were there too.”
“He won’t remember me. Today, I’m just an anonymous law enforcement agent, asking questions.” I pull open my suit jacket and show her the gold badge in its leather case hanging on my belt.
“Is that real?”
“Yup. I’m a Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy. Sheriff McKenzie deputized me himself, to be called into service whenever there is a crisis. And this, babe, is a crisis. Listen to your podcasts, and I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
She leans forward for a kiss. “Break his nose for me.”
I smack her on the lips and leave the car.
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand while running up the cement stairs. She marked me. Let’s hope her lipstick traces bring good luck.
I wait in the stairwell by the second floor, which is reserved parking for Celebrity Exposed employees. I came yesterday and plotted this. It was part of my “running around” that Trishelle complained about, so it had better work.
It does. Within six minutes, Larry Naythons parks his Jaguar in spot 632. He chirps his car lock and walks to the elevators. He is lean and fit in a blue suit with curly, dark hair, a JFK Jr. look-alike. He’s nothing I can’t handle. I leave the stairwell and block him ten yards before the elevator. He looks up from his phone.
“Larry Naythons? I need to talk to you about the article you wrote about Steven Quintana and Julia Travers.” My fists land on my hips, so my jacket falls open, showing the badge on my belt.
Larry slides his phone into his jacket pocket. “I answered all your questions yesterday. If you want me to reveal my sources, I won’t.”
“Except you’re not a journalist.”
“The state of California says I am.” Larry turns and points at his Jaguar. “See my California license plate? See the PP written inside the triangle, and then the four numbers? That’s a press photographer’s plate. I can legally drive into a disaster zone, and the police can’t stop me. And neither can you right now.”
When he tries to pass, my hand goes up to block him. “Why not just answer my questions here? Instead of me making a scene in your office?”
“What’s your name and your badge number?”
“Carl Webb. My badge number is 656.”
Larry smiles. “Mr. Webb, I have time for you. Is that a real
badge?”
“It certainly is. And I’ve arrested people using it.”
“Then you’re a real cop, just like I’m a real journalist. Let’s go to the roof. The view is better up there.”
We head up another four flights, and he’s right; you can see down the row of buildings lining Balloña Creek to Playa del Rey and the ocean, which is a straight line of dark blue against light blue, marking where the two paint rollers met.
“I have this view from my office.”
“It almost makes your job worthwhile.”
“What was your plan anyway? Beat me up in the stairwell until I talked?”
“Or scare you into thinking I might.”
“Is that how you run your Global Webb Security firm?”
“When I have to.”
“I heard you moved your business from the Bahamas to Miami.”
“We do a lot of security work in Latin America. You keeping tabs on me?”
Larry leans against the ledge. “I don’t dislike you, Carl. Or Julia or Quintana, even though he punched me in the chest once. We all benefit. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
“More like parasitic.”
“I’ve published just as many positive articles about Julia as negative ones. And about her producing partner, Trishelle Hobbs, too. She’s from Vermillion Bay. Her family moved to Thunder Bay when Trishelle was in high school, which is where she and Julia met. Did you know that?”
“No.” This showoff knows more about my girlfriend than I do.
He crosses his arms and stares. My reflection is perfect in his sunglasses. “I know because we ran a whole series on all of you after Quintana, and you rescued Julia and Trishelle from that Bahamian cay.”
“You printed that we staged it.”
He wags his finger. “Wrong. I printed that there were rumors that you had staged it, and, in the same series, we printed the truth. I can’t help what people believe.”
“They’ve really been kidnapped. It’s not some game that they’ve invented.”
“Or maybe they sent you here to tell me that. Julia is very creative.”
“Did you see the first episode? It was horrible.”
“I saw bits of it while I was cooking dinner last night. The production value is cheap, but it’s supposed to be gritty. They accomplished what they set out to do, I think.”
