The Umpire Has No Clothes

by Walter Witty

  “What’s that mean?” I said, glaring at him.

  Darryl lifted his hands defensively. “Hey, just sayin’ you got limited interests lately.” Darryl finished off his beer mechanically, shaking his head. “Better living through chemistry,” he concluded under his breath. Then he stared at a spot on the floor.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” After a moment of unfathomably deep thought he looked up. “So they canceled your project early because they suspected you’d be screwed with the FDA, is that what you’re telling me? That they knew your results before you laid them out, maybe from your assistant?”

  “I didn’t say that, but I suppose it’s possible. Still, it wasn’t Jim’s place to—”

  “God knows they don’t like negative publicity, with our stock so volatile.” Darryl cracked a knuckle, then another. “Putting two and two together, it looks like a coverup to me, and the theft a diversion to keep anyone from finding out how the formulation killed your lab assistant. That’s why you’re under wraps not to talk.”

  I coughed instead of what I wanted to do—which was to cry. Or to break something. Finally, I said, “Yeah, well, that’s your theory.”

  “Not possible?”

  I shook my head. “It’s criminal, is what it is.”

  Darryl started working the computer, using a CD from a file next to the external drive.

  “What are you doing now?” I asked, still a bit surprised by the depth of his cynicism.

  “You’re on AOL, right? I’ll reinstall it.”

  “Why? You wanna e-mail Winsdon, save your own ass while you can?”

  Darryl stopped for a second, then dismissed the idea. “I think we’re safe for the time being. I’m curious about who did this, if it’s not Tactar.”

  I watched from behind his shoulder as both the system software and then the AOL program were reinstalled. “You thinking your two and two might equal five, Einstein?”

  “Shut up and give me your password.”

  “Going Bald.”

  “That’s you, not me, buddy.”

  “No, that’s the passcode.”

  “Why not ‘Dumb Ass?’”

  “Cute.”

  Darryl entered the passcode, and got online at last. “Now what’s this girl’s screen name?”

  “Cindyboo.”

  “Cindyboo? As in Boo, I got you?” Darryl clucked his tongue, grunted, and then entered the name to prompt a profile. There was none. Next, he tried sending an e-mail to Cindyboo, and a pop-up now read: This is not an AOL member. He turned to me and shrugged. “Too late, she’s gone. You’re screwed, buddy.”

  “Great.” Stretching, I laced my hands behind my head, and stared up at the low ceiling, which seemed even lower now. I thought about the fame and fortune I might have come close to achieving, including possibly a red Porsche 911 Targa, the ultimate babe magnet. Then I gave a long sigh, back so soon to blaming of my luckless fate, the same old game. “So that’s it, huh. Now I’ll always wonder?”

  “Yup. Unless we hack into AOL records. Pentagon would be easier, though.”

  “That right? Figures.”

  “I may know someone who can help, though.”

  “Who? You mean a hacker?”

  Darryl reached forward to touch the screen with his index finger. He nodded to himself. Then he turned and winked at me. “I need a reason, though, bud. If you know what I mean.”

  “How about I’m a friend down on his luck.”

  “A lonely, luckless loser, yeah, but are you willing to pay?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  “Make it two, plus two. That’s four, in case you’re wondering. And give me some time.”

  He got up to leave. I stared at him through a mind fog as he moved to the door. “Wait a minute—how much time?”

  “As long as it takes,” Darryl replied, without blinking, “to think this over.”

  3

  Darryl took a lot longer than I expected. It had taken a while for things to get back to normal, too. Clueless, the police filed away a report indicating suicide, and Jim Baxter’s body—after a full autopsy—was laid to rest at Woodlawn Cemetery, next to his brother Clovis, who’d been a Gulf War hero. Returning to my own routine proved impossible, however, considering the boring nature of my new work. Suffering from recurring nightmares featuring broken glass, I endured a quiet despair characterized by listlessness and an almost constant reassessment of my professional and personal life. Not knowing whether to take a vacation or just resign, I went through my outward motions in a state of limbo, but inside I was as conflicted as a rat in a maze, and just as lost. Then came the day I ran into Darryl during lunch break, and everything changed because he gave me a target for my frustration.

  Except for the oversized Matisse reproduction and the high skylight, the Tactar plant cafeteria looked like a hospital cafeteria. White walls, linoleum floor, and a long stainless steel serving counter. The fare that day behind the hot glass display window consisted of meat loaf, liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, and various veggies straight from cans into the warming trays, with a little salt and butter added for taste. I asked for filet mignon, medium well, and a nice bottle of 1938 Mouton Rothschild. That drew a laugh from big Dave Huckley, the chef and server—a usually morose man who once confided in me that he was taking Lipitor for his cholesterol, on prescription from his doctor, and not Tactar’s own Selecor.

  I was carrying my tray of ketchup-drenched meat loaf and green beans, complete with dinner roll and iced tea, toward one of the two dozen square tables that had been angled forty-five degrees in an obvious attempt to appear stylish. I was about to sit near Jeffers’ pretty secretary, Allison Chambers, when a dark hand slipped under my elbow and guided me toward the door that led out to the courtyard.

  “There’s a table out there,” Darryl informed me, with imperious solicitude. “Haven’t seen you in weeks, and you look like you could use some fresh air, too.”

  He chose one of the three empty wrought iron tables on the red flagstone courtyard outside. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned cafeteria, but the ambiance was nicer. Darryl sat opposite me with a bagged lunch, and loosened his cherry red tie. The tie’s embroidered cherries looked more like cherry bombs than real cherries.

  I began. “That tie, you—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted, then glanced back at the window, beyond the potted Ficus, to see Allison Chambers and Bill Davis and several others looking in our direction, as if about to brave the early August heat and try for the two remaining tables. “Tell me who knew the most about your Satan bug besides you.”

  “What? I told you to stop calling it that.”

  Darryl pulled a huge ham and cheese sandwich from his brown bag like a magic trick, then a smaller baggie of bite-sized carrots. “Okay, Methuselah. Who besides you knew the access codes to the documentation?”

  I shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Half a dozen people, at least. They weren’t sure the computer was even protected by access code that night. It wasn’t always done, and the thing was just on screen saver most of the time. Touch any key and you’re in. It wasn’t like we expected espionage. I know the office was locked, though. And the internal computer wasn’t connected to any server.”

  Darryl unwrapped his sandwich, and bit a half moon. His words were slurred, as he talked with his mouth full. “Is that why none of the files were on the mainframe, either?”

  I speared a chunk of dripping meatloaf with my fork. “Huh? I thought some of them were. What’s this all about?”

  Darryl shushed me. “Whoever did this wiped everything, including their fingerprints. I found that out right away. Meanwhile, Tactar needed another star performer. Their stock is still going down, while Genetech just got approval for a competing product to our Disomene.”

  “You’re kidding. I never heard that.”

  “You’ve been up to your ass in aspirin substitutes, go figure. By the way, you haven’t told me how you
like your new office.”

  “There’s no view,” I confessed. “And Hepker is a pain that won’t go away.”

  “So you can’t see yourself working for him another twenty years?”

  I munched, waiting for the dry meatloaf in my mouth to mingle with the moisture of the ketchup. “Don’t even joke about that,” I managed.

  Darryl nodded, then polished his fingernails on his lapel, and admired them. “My theory still holds, then. True to form, Tactar buries the incident along with burying your colleague. Then, sooner or later, you quit and move on. End of story.”

  “How do you know it’s the end, Sherlock?” I asked. “You know, for someone else, it could really just be the—”

  “Beginning?” Darryl interrupted, and then he grinned unexpectedly. “If I’m feeling a kinda smug condescension to you it’s because I’m working on an even better theory.” He did another magic trick and with a flourish produced a folded note, which he handed over. “Presto, change-o, buddy. After some deep soul searching, I’ve decided you owe me four hundred bucks, as well.”

  I opened the piece of paper and read: Walter Mills, 621 Broadway Blvd., Cincinnati OHIO.

  “Who’s Walter Mills?”

  Darryl’s smile thinned a bit. “That’s the question, isn’t it? The bad news is, your Cindyboo has moved. The good news is, I have his new address.”

  He now produced a postcard.

  “What’s that?”

  “I sent this to his old address four days ago, and wrote ‘return service requested’ on it. The post office doesn’t forward it then, just returns it to you with the new address.”

  I stared at the little yellow sticker on the postcard in Darryl’s palm, which read: PO Box 16, Zion, IOWA. “Zion, Iowa?”

  Darryl shrugged. “Maybe he sold your research materials and retired there.”

  “He who? And sold it to who?”

  “And for how much?” Darryl held out one hand, wriggling together his thumb and index finger. “More than the four hundred bucks you owe me, I’m sure.”

  I pushed aside my lunch tray and studied Darryl’s face like I’d once studied the face of a carnival fortune teller, when asked for money. “That’s all you’ve got—a post office box in some piss ant Midwestern town?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t easy to come by. I had to get help.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind who. Just fork over the green, Mister Clean.”

  “But who’s Walter Mills? Is this guy on Tactar’s payroll?”

  “Nope.”

  “Has he got a record?”

  “You mean with the police? Again, you’re outta luck, if you ever had any to begin with. He’s not in the phone book either. Not here, and not in the Creston area phonebook there.”

  “Then who the hell is he? And what’s your other theory?”

  “You haven’t paid me yet.”

  This was getting old faster than I was. “Come on, Darryl,” I pleaded, “I know we haven’t gone the barbecue and bowling alley route together, but we’ve shared opinions on everything from politics to women to . . .” I paused, floundering and exasperated that I couldn’t resurrect memories of us doing much of anything other than arguing in the car. “Anyway, I haven’t got that much on me. You want me to give you fifty bucks in plain view of Jeffers’ secretary, over there? They been watching me close enough, as it is.”

  Darryl glanced back at the cafeteria window, meeting Allison Chambers’ askance but inquisitive gaze. “Okay, I see your point.” He laughed, as if at a joke. “You can get me all the money tomorrow. And by the way, did you know you have some vacation time you haven’t used? Better use it before the next quarter, or you’re gonna lose it. I suggest you skip Disney World and the Bahamas in favor of a nice drive out from the Des Moines airport to see what an ocean of wheat and corn looks like. That is, unless you think you’d enjoy Hepker sticking a pitchfork in your ass for the next two decades.”

  I stared across the table numbly, considering it. “What if they follow me?”

  Darryl raised his eyebrows. “You are paranoid. Just keep your eyes open. Anyway, I’ve used all my vacation time, but they can’t stop you. You’ve earned it, despite your many fumbles.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  What remained of Darryl’s smile spread quickly but evenly, like dawn on the desert. “Hey, pal, I’m God when I wanna be. You wanna know what Allison made last year, or the scoop on that new research assistant, what’s-her-name?”

  I experienced a flash memory of long shapely legs. A name found its neural path through my brain maze. “Donna Crossman?”

  “Yeah, that perked you up. Listen, I know other passcodes, too. Except for the ones you used.”

  I sighed. “So then you can tell me, has anyone retired from Tactar recently?”

  “Nope, checked that weeks ago.”

  “But you suggested—”

  “It was just a suggestion. You haven’t paid me for Mills yet. My theory is worth two cents without knowing who Walter is.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, fishing in my pocket for change. I dropped two pennies on the table next to Darryl’s bag of carrots. One of them rolled off into Darryl’s lap. “Spill it,” I demanded.

  That afternoon I visited Mary in Personnel, who informed Hepker of my request for time off. Hepker complained to Jeffers, but Jeffers called me with the go ahead. Thankfully, I didn’t pay for it this time by enduring a long comparison speech about those Caribbean cruise lines Jeffers preferred, like Royal, NCL, or Celebrity. Although I waited for him to ask me where I was going, the question never came. With my request approved at last, I then called American Airlines. A round trip ticket from Washington to Des Moines cost me four hundred and thirteen dollars on standby, and as I read my Visa card number over the phone I made a mental note to ask Darryl for a thirteen dollar refund if his second theory didn’t pan out and I was forced to watch Dancing With The Stars on in-flight television.

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  A Preview of The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott

  THE SKY OVER DUBAI

  1

  He sat unmoving on the couch of his mobile home, in the dark, the air conditioning off in August, a fake copy of Paradise Lost in his lap. He opened the book's cardboard flap and felt for the .25 caliber automatic inside. He lifted the gun out with one hand as a bead of sweat fell from his eyebrow onto his trigger finger. Then, hearing the gentle tick of his kitchen clock only ten feet away, he looked up and saw the faint backlit silhouette of a man's head framed in the curtained window. At this, his heart skipped a beat. But then he realized, by the speed at which the image shrunk off to the left, that it had been a magnified projection cast from a distance. Perhaps his neighbor had paused in alignment with the moon or with the distant street light at the end of the park. The Mexican had certainly not been standing as near his trailer as he'd first imagined.

  Thinking about suicide was out of the question now. If Raoul's immigrant family was home, his kids might hear. At the very least, being outside in order to have a smoke, Raoul himself would hear. Which would be embarrassing. For at least a nanosecond, anyway, he thought.

  He lowered the automatic back into the book, and was sliding it into place when he heard something metallic--like a tap--inside the square, cloth-lined space. A bullet? He took the gun back out and felt around until he touched a small, flat length of. . .

  A key.

  He felt the end of it, letting the rough teeth roll over the tip of his finger. Yes, most definitely a key. But to what?

  Then suddenly he remembered. How could he possibly have forgotten? He smiled tentatively, experimentally, hoping to feel something other than the kind of vast, unsuspected emptiness few of his neighbors knew existed. He placed the key into the palm of his other hand, sensing its weight--its reality--there. Then he stretched out his arm, and held it in the air, palm up, waiting for the leverage of it to increase, to become even more si
gnificant. Finally, he smiled again, and this time the smile held.

  Dawn brought rain to the desert, but he didn't care. For the first time in a long time he even looked into his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. Who's in there? he wondered, oddly. Anyone still alive? If so, how had this eccentric customer ever entertained such savage folly? It was a mystery. Because there was no reason for it. No real reason. He wasn't dying of pancreatic cancer. He wasn't yet a broken down old man living in a trailer. True, he had few friends and family left, after the trauma of his mother's passing, but the face staring back at him was barely middle aged. Pale though it was, it was not without a certain quality, too. There was even a rugged masculinity about his face's symmetry, with its square jaw, high cheekbones, and that set of complimenting creases which served as dimples. The dark hair, the dark eyes, the three day stubble graying at the ends. . . He looked a little like a character actor. Maybe even a stand-in for Tom Selleck. Just out of work for a few years, living in a trailer on the set of a long canceled Western.

  He'd lost the girl too, of course. If he ever had her. And now it was monsoon season again, he still pretending a call might come. Any call. He'd been in hiding--as one former colleague had put it. But why, and from whom? The question had never seemed as relevant before. He thought he knew the answer, but maybe it wasn't as simple as mourning or loneliness. Obviously it wasn't. He had a clue to it now, though. A tangible possession beside the facts. A thing he'd almost forgotten, due to his former history.

  He had the key.

  Shaving, he now wondered, with an odd elation, what might have happened had he used the key with April a year ago, when he had the chance. Surely he wouldn't have witnessed her with another man the previous day. A man who even looked like him, only more successful. Or richer, anyway. Surely he wouldn't be living in a trailer, or driving an old Ford pickup. Wouldn't be watching every penny, either, because the girl would make sure he couldn't. She'd break him of it. Still, it didn't explain how he'd let it come to this.