He was led to a table in the dining room. He waved away the menu, ordered the pile of Greek food he had planned on, and then called the waitress back and urged her to bring him a beer as quickly as possible and to keep replacing each bottle with a new, full one as soon as he had emptied it. This sudden need resulted from his having looked through the glass-paneled door that formed one wall of the dining room, out into the third eating area, the sunny patio.
One of the few topics on which Marlene and he had remained in agreement even during the long period of fights and disagreements, the disintegration of their marriage, was that The Acropolis’s patio was unbearably hot except during winter, when it was closed because it was unbearably cold. They had always referred to it as “the baking area,” and they had joined in scorn and condemnation of the local yuppies who sat out there working on their tans, catching some rays, or in Marlene’s words “Riding that melanoma express.” But now he could see Marlene herself out there, dressed in her best yuppie clothing and sharing a sunny table with a man of the same subcultural persuasion.
The man was tall, dark, and handsome. His face was unwrinkled and unsagging, and his shoulders were broad. Presumably because of the sunlight, he had taken off his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves fashionably half way up his forearms, which Malcolm could therefore see were well muscled, with the prominent veins of an athlete. The man was grinning, his eyes were shining, and he was speaking animatedly while he leaned familiarly toward Marlene. She was responding — laughing, smiling, writhing, panting, licking her whiskers and twitching her ears and tail with eager anticipation. Malcolm did not need to be told that her companion was Fred Seicht, Assistant Comptroller at First Arapahoe Savings and Extortion.
Malcolm’s first reaction was to order the steady stream of beer.
His second reaction was a flood of blind, unthinking hatred toward Marlene combined with a desire to deal an unimaginably horrible death to her male companion.
His third reaction was the realization that Marlene was indeed an enormously desirable woman.
He had known that once, when they’d first met and in the early days of their marriage, but his appreciation of her great sexuality and high libido had faded when faced, day after day and year after year, with her even more impressive bitchiness. Now he forgot the bitchiness and remembered only the lovely, firm, small body, the litheness and liveliness, the enthusiasm and eagerness. And the skills.
“Oh, Marlene!” he moaned and stood up and lunged and grabbed the first beer from the tray of the approaching and startled waitress and sat down and tilted his head back and choked and spluttered the beer down as fast as he could. It ran out of the corners of his mouth and mingled with the tears streaming down his cheeks. When Malcolm put the bottle down on the table, it was empty.
“Another, sir?” the waitress asked timidly, keeping her distance.
“Yes! Yes! That’s what I said — keep ‘em coming. Oh, Marlene! Sob.”
His food came, the glorious Greek feast he had been looking forward to all the way from his apartment to the restaurant, his reward for his new literary diligence and an advance celebration of anticipated success, and it was tasteless and pointless. He stuffed huge quantities into his mouth, chewed them without pleasure, and swallowed them with the help of much beer, which had also lost all taste or ability to give him pleasure.
“Oh, Marlene,” he moaned whenever he wasn’t actually swallowing.
The waitress stayed far away, except to bring him the requested steady supply of fresh beer. The other customers finished hurriedly and left. Soon the dining room was deserted except for the miserable and moaning and increasingly drunk Malcolm Erskine.
There were quite a few customers on the patio, but Malcolm could only see Marlene and Fred Seicht. By now, they had finished their lunch and were holding hands and touching each other repeatedly. He had no doubt that they would continue the mutual exploration with even less restraint later. Perhaps — final insult — they would consummate the dinner, have their dessert, in Malcolm’s very own ex-bed in his very own ex-house.
“Oh, Marlene!”
Marlene and her assistant comptroller stood to leave, and Marlene turned and noticed her ex-husband. Seicht put his hand on her buttocks. She smirked at Malcolm as they passed his table on the way out.
Malcolm’s misery turned back to rage.
The bitch! Stupid, worthless, mindless... stupid little bitch! He’d show her! Once Business Secrets from the Stars hit the stands, he’d be rich and famous, worth far more than any assistant comptroller and far better known, and then she’d be sorry!
He imagined Marlene looking at his picture in People magazine.
“Malcolm Erskine was the most famous of the celebrities who showed up for the premiere of the movie version of his latest novel, Sins, Sex, and Software. He was accompanied by his social secretary, the stunningly, exotically beautiful young woman with shoulder-length black hair and olive skin shown here hanging on his arm and his every word and staring up at him adoringly.”
Suddenly, the food and drink acquired taste again. Only a few bites were left on his plate, only a few sips in the current bottle. Malcolm savored them for a long time, chewing slowly and rolling the beer over his tongue. Then he paid, heaved himself to his feet, and headed for home, walking with surprising steadiness.
Back at his apartment, he stayed up all night hunched over his keyboard, watching the glowing words of New-Age nonsense springing into existence in orderly lines on his monitor. By morning, he had finished the second chapter of his masterpiece.
Take that, Marlene!
He rewarded himself by going to bed.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
My cosmic child, these are the true laws of nature, which I shall present to you in the form of bullet points, for this is proper among beings of our intellectual prowess:
* The Basic Law of Nature
Greed and acquisition are at the heart of everything. The more you want, the more you strive to acquire what you deserve to have. The more you acquire, the more you want. This great natural cycle is the driving engine of all progress and all morality. So it was in our day, so it is in yours, and so it shall always be, everywhere in the Universe.
* The Marketplace and its Heroes
From this cycle are derived the laws of the holy marketplace, which are as real and predictable and perfect as those of your fine fellow Newton himself. Learn those marketplace laws and live those marketplace laws and never cease to preach them. Clearly, those who understand and live the laws of the marketplace are men of prudence, high intellect, and powerful virility.
* The Role of Government
Government is an evil device that functions only to protect the weak and foolish from the proper workings of natural law. Government should always minimize the damage resulting from its evil presence by never interfering with you in any way. On rare occasions, however, through no fault of your own, you may find your enterprises in a perilous condition. Your corporations, despite their moral superiority and entrepreneurial puissance, may require propping up in order to survive. At such times, government finds its true — indeed, its only — function: to suck treasure from the pockets of the unworthy and heap it upon you, so that the great engines of productivity may once again hum.
— From a mind-to-mind slide show by Lukas of Aldebaran, as imagined by Malcolm Erskine and reproduced in Business Secrets from the Stars.
By the time Malcolm finished the manuscript of Business Secrets from the Stars, he and Judith Tillen had parted professional ways.
Malcolm’s marriage had lasted ten years, his first agent had lasted three years, and his second agent had lasted six months.
This is not a good track record, Malcolm told himself. I’d better not get married again.
He assured himself that he also didn’t need an agent again. He would market his new book by himself.
First, though, he had to print it. All he had so far was a collecti
on of magnetic domains on a hard drive spinning away in his computer.
In those ancient days, O Fellow Starspawn, laser printers were very expensive and could only be afforded by largish companies or — gnash your teeth at this thought, as Malcolm so often did — very successful writers. Therefore, Malcolm habitually used the laser printer at work. This time, though, he was reluctant to do that. For one thing, it seemed inappropriate for the author of the book that would soon dominate the best-seller lists to have to print it a few pages at a time, all the while looking over his shoulder nervously in case he was caught breaking a company rule. It was not dignified. For another and more important thing, he had the feeling that the frequent mysterious disappearance of dozens or hundreds of sheets of laser printer paper and the mysteriously frequent need to replace the printer’s toner cartridge were already being traced to him as the logical suspect.
What he needed was a laser printer of his very own, in his very own cramped apartment, next to his very own personal computer. No, what he needed was the money to buy such a printer.
The very day that thought came to him, a fortuitous letter came, too.
When he first saw the long envelope with the name “Marlene Erskine” imprinted in the upper left-hand corner, along with his own ex-address, he almost threw it away without opening it. He was sure it did not contain an eloquent plea for him to return to her. A complaint connected with alimony payments would have come from a lawyer. Nothing else was of interest to him. Fortunately, he decided to open it and read the sheet inside.
It was a page torn from Extortion Extracts, the internal newsletter of First Arapahoe Savings and Extortion. Circled in red, just in case Malcolm might have missed it, was an announcement in the middle of the page.
Marlene Erskine has been promoted to First Administrative Executive Assistant Playpal to Assistant Comptroller Fred Seicht. Along with her increased responsibilities and higher salary, Ms. Erskine cited the chance to work even more closely with Mr. Seicht, a man, in her words, “with large talents and an admirably hard-driving style.” Ms. Erskine, who is a great favorite with all the guys here at Extortion Extracts, also informed us that she expects to be able to use her annual raise for scandalous self-indulgence since her basic living expenses are fortunately being covered by her schmuck of an ex-husband.
At the bottom was a printed note from the new playpal herself.
Dearest Malcolm:
Isn’t this great? I know you’re so proud and pleased for me. Fred even equipped your ex-study with a new, powerful computer and laser printer so that on days I want to sleep in, I can still do all the important spreadsheeting and word processing that go with my job and print them out snazzily and then go back to bed.
Bed is so much more important and attractive to me now than it used to be.
The printed words were followed by Marlene’s signature, which he noted was considerably larger and more ornate than it used to be.
A postscript was added at the very end.
The company’s also bought me a new BMW, so I’m leaving your old scrap pile parked at the curb with the key in the ignition. You can have it, if you want. If you don’t, I’m sure someone will take care of it real soon.
Malcolm looked carefully at the individual letters. Crisp, clean, even, lovely. What editor could fail to be impressed by a manuscript printed so beautifully?
He checked his watch. Seven p.m. Two hours until full dark. Three hours until Marlene went to bed. Allow two more to be sure she would be very deeply asleep. She had always insisted on her full “beauty sleep,” as she called it. He had to admit that it seemed to do the job for her.
* * * * *
Night fell at last — a cool, crisp, cloudless, moonless night. Time passed, and the lights went out in the surrounding buildings. By midnight, except for the streetlights and the occasional car passing on the major street two blocks away, the city slept.
All but Malcolm Erskine.
Malcolm slipped out of his apartment building into the darkness. He was dressed as those bent on dangerous nighttime missions always dress, according to the movies: black pants, black socks, black shoes, black sweater, black woolen cap. Or as close as he could come to that ideal. In fact, he wore blue jeans, navy blue socks, and blue running shoes with, unfortunately, white swirly things on them. His sweater was a very dark red, but it was the darkest sweater he had, and it looked close enough to black at night. He did, though, have on a truly black woolen cap. It was making his head sweat and itch.
He had thought about painting dark blotches under his eyes, as movie characters always did, but he had nothing with which to do the painting. Anyway, he had never understood why that was supposed to help.
And he didn’t want to be too conspicuous. He was going to have to travel by bus and foot to get to his ex-house and ex-, and apparently present, car. For that matter, if some passing auto thief had already noticed the key in the ignition and stolen the car, he would have to return to his apartment by foot and bus, empty handed. That might well have happened. According to the date stamp on the envelope, two days had passed since Marlene had mailed the letter, and presumably his old car had been sitting by the curb invitingly during that time.
It was twelve-twenty in the morning by the time Malcolm reached downtown Piketon. He walked briskly along dark, deserted streets that he was used to seeing sunlit and crowded.
He passed occasional groups of two or three young men lurking at street corners. He recognized some of them as the shuffling, deferential panhandlers who approached him during the day. Now they stood straight, and there was nothing deferential in their stares. Police cars cruised by, but not often enough for Malcolm’s taste — even though he was also nervous about arousing the suspicions of the cruising police. He snatched the cap from his head and crumpled it up in his hand. His head felt a lot better.
At last he reached the bus stop he wanted, and at last a bus arrived, the nighttime version of the bus he had been wont to take home, when he had had a real home. By now, it was after one a.m. Malcolm, as he climbed aboard the bus, was wide awake, every nerve ajangle.
He looked around surreptitiously at his fellow passengers. These were not the suited, briefcase-carrying types who inhabited the bus in the daytime. Instead, there were one pale young white woman with a sleeping baby and a black eye, one old black man muttering to himself, one young white man staring into space and wearing a bitter expression. And, of course, Malcolm Erskine, shadow in the night.
Each of the other three was dressed too lightly for the chill night and in shabby clothes. Maybe, thought Malcolm, my own problems are not really the worst ones in the world. Then he thought about Marlene and Fred Seicht and Joe Hoffman, and he decided that yes, they really were.
During the day, this bus would have taken him to within a couple of blocks of his former home. But the route was abbreviated after dark, and he found himself with two miles to walk. Thus it was close to two-thirty when he finally came within sight of the house that now belonged exclusively to Marlene. He was footsore and exhausted, but his dented Honda parked by the curb acted as a tonic. The most worrisome element in his scheme was no longer a worry.
With a spring in his step, he climbed the fence and crept across the lawn to the back of the house. Fortunately, the last barking dog in the neighborhood had died of old age two years earlier, and the dogs that still lived in the area were much too sensible to let a prowler disturb their sleep.
One of the living room’s large windows faced the back yard. The window’s lock had never worked properly. This was how he had entered the house when he had snatched his computer. If you jiggled the window in its frame a few times, the latch would fall open. Malcolm had noticed this at an early date, but he had never mentioned it to Marlene, because then she would have insisted that he repair it, and that would have involved physical effort. How foresightful of me, Malcolm congratulated himself.
Within minutes, he was inside the house, and he had made scarcely a sound.<
br />
Not that utter silence was necessary. Marlene always was a sound sleeper, he reminded himself. Especially when I was interested in something other than sleeping.
He crept slowly up the stairs, avoiding the creaky places he remembered. He navigated by touch, surprising himself at how easy it was to do so, how well he remembered every detail of the layout of the house.
His ex-study had been a bedroom when they had moved in, and its door faced that of the master bedroom, where Marlene even now was no doubt dreaming sweet dreams of money and power.
He navigated carefully through the study by touch. His fingers found the new computer and laser printer. Feeling around gently, careful not to knock anything over, he also determined that this was not his old, second-hand metal desk, but a much thicker, heavier one of wood. An expensive wood, he had no doubt. Still operating entirely by feel, he took out the small screwdriver he had brought with him and set about disconnecting the printer from the computer.
A sound from the bedroom!
Malcolm froze in place, holding his breath.
A man’s voice mumbled, “Friendly takeover.”
Marlene, also mumbling, said, “Risky investment.”
Malcolm ground his teeth.
More mumbling, this time too indistinct for Malcolm to make out any words. Then began the rhythmic creaking of bed springs that he had hoped he wouldn’t hear.
“Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred!” Marlene called out. “Oh, Fred, you’re so adequate!”
Seicht gasped, “Credit-debit, credit-debit, credit-debit.”
Marlene, shrieking: “Bottom line! Oh! Yes! Bottom l-i-i-i-i-ne!”
Business Secrets from the Stars Page 10
