Radon bore down on the accelerator. “Sytech, where are you?”
The road through the business campus snaked under him. “There you are, you big, pregnant, ripe-for-the-milking, bitch, you.” The swank building was unreservedly designed to radiate money to attract big investment types, and sadly, for them, big-time crooks like Radon—well, smalltime really, but with big-time imaginations.
Radon parked the car in the parking tower far enough down to be off limits to all those out-of-town dignitaries.
He popped the trunk and started his makeover, exchanging his finely pressed clothes for the fireman’s uniform.
A snooty business woman climbed out of her car and gave him the evil eye. He was starting to think business types were more suspicious than ex-cons. “Since when do firefighters get dressed out of the trunk of their cars?” she asked. “Since when do they wear thousand dollar suits, for that matter?”
“Since they’re being paid a couple thousand to get into character and strip.”
Suddenly, she was all about emanating worldly sophistication. She smiled as he handed her a bogus business card.
“Private viewings, of course, can run you a little more.”
She sneered derisively, but kept the card. She strutted off in her high heels and power-suit. She was likely one of the dignitaries attending the Sytech conference who thought as he did to grab parking where she could. That meant she could be a problem later.
Radon footed it back to Sytech carrying his calling cards: fire-ax, helmet, face-mask, and oxygen tank. He pressed the virtual buttons on his iPhone, which triggered the next phase of operations.
***
Patricia froze the graphic on the fifty-inch monitor, realizing she was going to need a little more time with this section of the presentation and the conference call than she’d planned. One look at the skeptical faces in the boardroom told her as much. She should have figured a bunch of businessmen were not about to turn their corporation upside down on her calculations. Forget she had graduated top of her class at MIT, and had already increased their annual earnings by over twenty percent, which translated into billions of dollars. At the end of the day, male egos trumped female intuition and their own common sense every time. Suddenly it was the 1950s all over again. But not all business sectors saw the kind of female penetration at the top she’d like, this being one of them.
“As you can see from the graphic, divesting ourselves of all technology-sectors outside of our core competency allows us to focus our research dollars where they’ll do the most good. Inside of two years we should be able to offer dividends again.” Patricia met their eyes, defied them to argue the point and make fools of themselves in the process.
“That’s a lot of hard-won loyalty we’re cashing in for pennies on the dollar, Patricia. We made promises and commitments. Those are peoples’ lives we’re toying with, or is it just all numbers to you?”
That was Desmond Conroy, old-school to the end; people over profits. The good news was that no one took him seriously.
“It’s going to come back to bite us, mark my words. One pissed off guy smacking of betrayal with a big mouth is all it takes to sully a corporation’s brand name.” Desmond managed to get a few begrudging groans of agreement from empathetic brethren who squirmed in their chairs.
“Hello! Hello! Hello!” Radon’s voice boomed over the fifty-inch monitor as he cut in on Patricia’s presentation. “Hate to rattle the cage on you looney birds, but you do it to everyone else. What’s a little karmic retribution, huh?”
Desmond sat upright in his seat. “Oh, shit!”
“There’s a bomb in your building.” The monitor-speakers strained to carry the voice without creaking. “That’s right. No, it’s not a bluff. Do I look like a guy who’s out for any less than his pound of flesh? You’re all going to be dead in three minutes. Have a nice day.” And with that—the signal cut out.
“I swear I know that guy,” Desmond blurted, rising from his seat and collecting his cell phone. He glowered at Patricia. “I told you profits before people would come back to haunt us, you callow cunt.”
Patricia sharpened her tone like a knife against flint. “You swear you know him? This coming from someone who can’t remember his dead wife’s face? You manage your guilt and leave me to manage mine, you condescending prick.” Patricia looked around. The room had already emptied. It was just Desmond and her in an all too familiar face-off.
“We’ll continue this argument in hell.” Desmond punched her in the face. As she fell to the floor, he beat a path to the door, not caring if she ever got up.
Patricia peeled herself off the carpet in response to the fire-alarm, focused her eyes before she could make out the door. She crawled until she was able to get to her feet.
***
Radon pushed the wheel-barrow, which the gardeners working the grounds had been kind enough to leave him, into Sytech’s lobby. By abandoning it, they demonstrated the proper way to display panicked behavior.
Not one executive bothered to question why a guy in a fireman’s uniform would be heading into a building to address a bomb threat. Arguably, they were too busy running out the door. Just as arguably, firemen, ambulance medics, and a larger support team accompanying the bomb squad was not unusual.
But one of the gunless security guards, an elderly black woman, found him out of place. “You aren’t the bomb squad. What are you doing here?”
Radon ripped off the facemask. Truth be told, it wasn’t worth feeling that uncomfortable just for a little extra cover. “I’m new, ma’am. I was told to collect people’s valuables for later.”
“Why would they send a rookie in ahead of more experienced men?”
Radon sighed. He ripped the purse out of her hands, which she was clutching tighter than ever. “Okay, lady, you got me. I’m just a miserable, wretched thief capitalizing on a deplorable situation. You happy now?”
“Damn lunatic!” She pushed her way through the glass doors.
“At least we finally agree on something.”
Radon whistled his way into the first ground-floor conference room. He picked through the abandoned suitcases, tossed iPads and iPhones left on the desktops into the wheelbarrow, left the generic android phones and tablets right where he found them. He hated anything that didn’t put style above all else.
Maybe you’re looking at this all wrong, Radon. Maybe it’s not the pretty packaging, but what’s inside the boxes that matter. He picked up one of the android tablets. It didn’t take him long, scrolling through the contents, to unearth all sorts of content worthy of blackmailing a client over. “Hello.” Smutty pictures stored as trophies of illicit affairs. Online banking with the necessary passwords auto-filled. People’s entire lives were in here. Veritable gold mines one and all. He quickly snatched up the rest of the electronics.
One of these days, Radon, you’re going to have to ask yourself why you like throwing people’s lives into a tailspin. Is it predictability you despise? Are you doing them a favor? Or are you really just jealous as all get out because you’ll never step onto the Promised Land yourself? If you’re going to have this much character, seems to me you should know what the hell’s behind it.
He examined the key ring left in the satchel through which he had just finished poring. Beemer. Neutered stylishness, to be avoided at all costs. He dropped the key ring. No, you need a convertible Rolls from the 1930s with hellacious white walls. A car that says something other than, “I’m so rich and I’m still somebody’s bitch, so I can’t afford to stand out too much and appear to have an actual mind of my own.”
“Hold it right there!”
Radon turned to see a young security guard, unlike the others—with a gun. It never occurred to him that different corporations within the building might have different takes on security. The guard’s hands trembled. Apparently, whatever the philosophy of his employers, they didn’t want to pay much more than the ones paying for the gunless-guards.
“
Relax, buddy. I’m rescuing whatever I can to return to the rightful owners.”
“Oh yeah?” His voice shook. He holstered his gun. “Need any help?”
Do they really make people this dumb? Radon thought. Surely by now they would have gone extinct. Maybe it’s a charity for dim-witted people. Radon decided he’d be better off thanking his lucky stars than acting superior, even if that meant breaking from character.
“Yeah, I’d love that. Find yourself a wheel barrow, and collect up as many valuables as possible. Start at the other end of the building so we don’t waste time going over the same rooms.”
“Got ya.” The young security guard raced out of the room.
“It’s my sincere hope, young man, you make captain someday.”
Radon popped the latest unforthcoming suitcase with his fire ax, and held up the roll of breath mints. It does seem like a lot of genius to dedicate to such paltry returns. What’s up with that? You need to resolve these maddening conundrums before people label you unbalanced.
At the sounds of sirens, he turned to see the bomb truck, several fire trucks, and countless police cars pull up. At least now I can blend.
Seeing firemen pouring out of the fire truck prompted him to regard his costume. And what’s with pretending to rescue people, while screwing them over?
When he panned his head to return to the job at hand, he found himself in the basement alongside his bomb. “What the fuck!”
***
Robin materialized before Radon. He whistled lewdly at the hot woman in the red hourglass dress. “As psychotic breaks go, you’re actually welcomed.” His attention returned to the bomb. What’s this about? Is guilt causing the meltdown? Maybe you’re just a junior league bad guy, and you shouldn’t play outside your limits.
“Radon, that upwelling of consciousness, so out of character, you should consider running with it.”
“I’m sorry, who are you, besides a figment of my imagination?”
“You’re not hallucinating me. I’m intervening in your destiny because you show real potential, if you could get your mind out of the gutter for five minutes.”
“Now I know I’m hallucinating.”
“In every timeline you’re in, you just can’t seem to shed the bitterness. In my timeline, you went around with a device that triggered traffic lights to turn green from all directions. Then, after the car collisions, you walked around and picked pockets, all the while pretending to be rescuing people.”
“I did that? God, that’s brilliant. Maybe I’m just smarter in these other timelines.”
Robin sighed. “You’re missing the point.”
“Pray tell, Lady in Red, what is that?”
“If you’re going to let accidents of fate bend you out of shape, you’ve already lost. You’ll never be free. This man-outside-the-system persona you’ve cultivated for yourself; that’s mock freedom. You’re even more enslaved than the boobs you poke fun at. This you prove every time you lash out at different stimuli with the same response.”
“God, you really do have my number. Fine, how much do I owe you for the psych consult?”
Robin realized she needed a better response to his sarcasm than just shaking her head. So be it. “I’m gonna help you realize you don’t have to let accidents of fate control you.”
“Yeah, right. Quit while you’re ahead, lady.”
***
The Lady in Red disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared. “Maybe you should trade in this life for life as an acid-head,” Radon said. “You’ve really been missing out.”
He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced back at the bomb. Five seconds to go. Oh shit! This can’t be what she meant about teaching me not to let accidents of fate control me. That’s just cunty as all get out.
The explosion sent him through the window.
He could feel the lights switching off in his head.
***
Radon beheld his reflection in the full-length mirror. From the right side, he looked like a lizard after all the scarring from the explosion, and the rather ineffective skin grafts. From the left side, he looked relatively unscathed. Apparently that anonymity at the root of his soul was intent on stalking him to oblivion.
He threw on a robe and picked up his pack of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes and lighter. He’d only taken to smoking so he could feel the fire burning inside him. Maybe if he singed the half of him that remained unscarred, he could finally be of one mind on something.
Squatting on the stoop, he could see the eleven-year-old kid plying his paper route across the street. He was doing his Friday collections. Ostensibly. What he was really doing was scoping out the houses, peeking through the open doors to see what was worth fleecing. Radon felt a twinge. Maybe the kid was a bastard son. He’d certainly fooled around enough to have made some chips off the ol’ block. No one would have told him anything because it wasn’t his style to stick around long enough to find out. Then again, he couldn’t take credit for every inspired thief.
The kid scribbled notes on his receipt pad every time a mark turned around to go get him his money. Radon laughed. The youngster also held up his cell phone and snapped a picture of the interiors when he could get away with it.
The would-be thief used the papers collecting on the porches as his “go time” signal. He let go of the red pull-cart with the newspapers, and walked the paper in his hand up to the house with twenty or so papers piled up out front. He peeped through the windows. The kid shouted, “Mr. Cauley!” Waited. Then— “You want me to bring it around back? No problem!” Radon smiled. Inspired. He had wondered how the kid planned to break into a house in broad daylight with people outside, mowing their lawns, washing their cars, clipping their hedges, and with little kids racing their Big Wheels down the middle of the street.
After ten minutes, when the kid didn’t come out, Radon decided to investigate.
He crossed the street in full view of the neighbors in his robe and slippers, looking like an advanced scout for an alien invasion, and no one so much as turned their heads. Maybe people practicing live and let live to this degree deserved less of his scorn.
He walked up to the front door, played with the lock with the lock-picking kit on his key ring, and quickly let himself in.
His protégé sat on the couch, staring at the dead Mr. Growenthal, seated on the wingback chair. Of the two of them, Radon wasn’t sure which one was doing a better job at playing statue. They had certainly both found some pretty striking poses to freeze themselves into.
“Shake it off, kid. Minor setback.”
The kid took one look at him, screamed all the way to hell, probably figuring he couldn’t do any worse getting Satan’s attention, and ran for the door.
Radon caught him by the collar and flung him back on the couch. “You’re more scared of me than the dead guy? We really need to work on your social skills, kid.”
He flipped through the youth’s receipt pad. “Your accounting skills, on the other hand, are pretty good. You have a natural talent for what’s worth stealing and what’s not.”
“Who says I’m looking to steal anything? I’m just taking note of what they like so I know what to get my customers for Christmas. Pays to get in good with them, leads to bigger tips.”
“You’re fast on your feet. That’s good. You need a lot of skill sets to thrive in this business. What’s your name, kid?”
“Never mind.”
“That’s right, the less information they have on you, the better. Never Mind, you continue to impress.”
“So, I suppose you want to be my partner now? Fifty-fifty or you take what you know to the cops. Blackmailing low-life.”
“Never Mind, you need a mentor, if you’re going to grow up to be a right proper thief. You need some structure in your life, a sense of family, so you’re not just about getting over, being the cool man out. Trust me, that gets old.”
“Give me a chance to get all old and broken down, then I might agree with
you.”
“You let me teach you how to be a thief and a productive member of society, and you got a future, kid. Otherwise you’re gonna end up like me, or worse, like him.” He directed the kid’s eyes back to Growenthal, for dramatic emphasis. “Bet he’s got some regrets, huh?” He dropped the notebook on the table with a trance-shattering thud. “Does it make more sense to repeat the same mistakes as your elders, or to learn from them?”
The kid stared at the dead man and gulped. “I suppose it can’t hurt to get some advanced warning. Just don’t get all preachy on me. I hate that self-righteous shit.”
“Deal.”
“And the family thing, you can forget that. This is strictly business.”
“Lady in Red, you want to help me out here?” Radon figured it couldn’t hurt to reach out to her. With any luck, she was monitoring their little chat.
“I think you ought to listen to him, kid,” the dead Mr. Growenthal advised. He picked up his tea cup and sipped his tea where he’d left off. He didn’t look any less dead, decayed, and rotting.
“Now, I’m definitely out of here.” The kid bolted for the door.
Dead Growenthal telekinetically slammed the door on him, slammed down the windows, and shuttered them while he was at it, flicked on the lights. “I’ve always wanted a family.”
He telekinetically drew the kid to him, hugged him tight, and lavished him with wet kisses, which didn’t go over that well, considering he was giving zombies a bad name. He oozed blood out his ears and passed enough gas to make it worth tapping him to alleviate the national debt.
The kid exchanged grimaces as if he was shuffling a deck backed by sad clown faces.
Radon laughed. “Ah, there’s no substitute for family.” He rescued the kid from Growenthal. “Now, clean this place up. It’s a sty. While I go rescue the papers off the porch and bring in your cart. At dinner we’ll talk about how to fleece the bad guys to give to the good guys. That way we can play to our greatest talents and still feel good about ourselves.”
Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5) Page 176
