by Blake Banner
The text then took a very rapid and unexpected turn, and started talking about child psychology. It began by stating that, “It has been clear since Albert Bandura’s development of social cognitive theory in the early 1960s that children learn behavior by imitating role models, and that television can become a very powerful delivery system for such role models. Later work by Hill, Eggen and Kauchack and Eden have shown that modeling of this type can continue in later life, where the social environment is conducive to retarding adulthood and discouraging self-reliance.
“It is proposed here that our society is eminently well suited to this kind of modeling, in that the visually-based media occupy a central role in social life and social interaction, and provide us with a wide range of ready-made celebrity role models from the earliest age. These models have already assumed a large part of the role traditionally reserved for parents and, to an even greater extent, that reserved for priests and other spiritual guides who both prescribed and proscribed particular types of behavior…”
The next few pages were in a similar vein. Then I came to a passage that stated, “The Omega Behavioral Research Team has conducted a number of experiments over the last forty years in which the potential of television, IT and cinema as tools for behavioral conditioning have been explored. Certain limitations have been identified, but the power of these media not only to promote, but to dictate behavior as diverse as eating habits, violence, aggression and sexual orientation, has been established beyond any doubt. It is proposed therefore that…”
That was where the photographs ran out. I didn’t need to read any more. I knew what they proposed. They were like the Wile E Coyote, constantly trying out new methods from the endless ACME store of mind control devices. With the one big difference that instead of the Roadrunner they were successfully preying on almost eight billion people who were, steadily, according to Omega’s plan, turning into quasi-zombies.
I sat for a while, indulging in my proscribed behavior, smoking on the bed and drinking whiskey, and wondered what our ancestors would have made of the world their descendents had created for themselves. I tried to think back and identify at what point we had entered this dystopian nightmare without even realizing we had crossed through the portal from sanity to madness. Was it, as Senator Cyndi McFarlane had suggested, in the 1960s? Or was it earlier, when we made the first steam engines and trains? Or was it when the Romans started standardizing things and spreading their empire, their culture of citizenship, of all roads leading to one place, one God. I remembered reading an old Viking saga where they described the spread of Romanized Christianity across Europe as a black tide.
And that made me think of Malthus. Because that was pretty much what he had predicted for a humanity: a black, unstoppable tide, where the victim is the disease itself. Only it was so much worse than anything he had ever predicted.
Four
I slept for four hours, showered and went out to the reception. The dark-haired woman was still there. She said, “You want breakfast?”
Something barely perceptible had thawed in her manner.
“Thanks.”
“I put you a table in the garden.”
She pointed to a door in the yellow, lime washed wall. I opened it and found myself in a garden densely populated with yucca, cacti and rhododendrons. There was a white, cast-iron table laid for breakfast on a small patch of lawn under a group of three palm trees. I sat and pulled my burner cell from my pocket. I checked my watch. It wasn’t nine yet. So I sat and listened to the birds for a while.
After about five minutes she came out with a tray of coffee and hot rolls. I watched her set the tray on the table and start to unload it. It struck me for the first time that she was beautiful. I guessed also that she was probably permanently mad at the world, which hid the fact that she was beautiful behind a mask of sullen hostility. On an impulse I said, “My name is Lacklan.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Lacklan? I have never heard this name.” She suppressed a smile of amusement. “You have no land?”
I gave a small laugh. “It means one who comes from the lochs, from the fjords. A Viking raider. What’s yours?”
She hesitated a moment. “Maria.”
She turned and walked back inside. I poured coffee and buttered toast, ignored my gut and decided this was my reward for paying lots of money and not causing trouble. There was nothing more to it than that. I didn’t need to get sidetracked and I did need to stay focused.
At five past nine I called Intelligent Imaging Consultants and was answered by a pretty young voice that was full of sunshine and all the positive stuff she had learned from whatever shows had replaced Friends since I’d grown old.
“Good morning!” she said, and I almost heard the twitter of birds. “Welcome to Intelligent Imaging Consultants, this is Lisa speaking, how may I direct your call?”
“Good morning, Lisa. I need to talk to…” I plucked a name at random from my memory. “Ahmed Musa.”
“May I inquire about the nature of your call, Mr…?”
“No. My name is Reginald B. Franklin, I am a financier from New York and I am looking to invest twenty million bucks in cutting edge research and development in social cognitive modeling in visually based media. Got that? Now find me Musa, sweet cakes, before I get bored.”
“One moment please, Mr. Franklin”
She put me on hold and while I waited, through the iron fence, I watched Don pull up in his car. He climbed out and caught sight of me in the garden. A minute later Maria went out, climbed into a small Honda and drove away. Then there was a voice in my ear. It was a cultured voice with an English accent.
“Mr. Franklin, this is Ahmed Musa speaking, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Musa, I represent a small consortium of very wealthy investors out east who are looking for interesting, ground breaking areas in which to invest their money. One of the areas we are especially interested in is TV, web-based TV and movies, and cinema. But what we are really looking to invest in, Mr. Musa, Ahmed, if I may, is the application of cognitive behavioral theories to these media. And I don’t really want to discuss this in any more depth over the telephone, you know what I’m saying? We have an initial budget of twenty million which we are looking to invest, and we are interested in your company.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “And what form exactly would this investment take, Mr. Franklin?”
“Well that’s something I figure we can discuss in person, whad’ya say?”
“Naturally. When would be convenient for you? I am free…”
I didn’t wait to see when he was free. “Twelve o’clock, midday today. Back east, time is not something we like to waste, know what I’m saying, Ahmed? It ain’t like California.”
“Of course, I appreciate that. Twelve noon. I look forward to seeing you then.”
“Yeah, you too. Take it easy.”
I hung up and saw Don standing in the doorway watching me. He said, “Good morning. I see Maria has pulled out all the stops for you. Can I get you anything else?”
I studied him a moment, wondering if I was seeing jealousy lurking in his expression. I decided I wasn’t. I said, “It was very kind of her. I have everything I need. Thanks.”
He hesitated, then stepped out into the yard, closing the door behind him. “She’s a remarkable woman. People think it’s my place, she prefers it that way, but it’s not. It belongs to her. I just manage it during the day.” He took a step closer. “People think she’s my wife too, sometimes, but she’s not.” He shrugged, half-smiled. “Unfortunately. I care for her, a lot.”
I nodded, waited. After a moment I shrugged and said, “I’m just passing through, Don. I’m not getting involved.”
“Right. Well, anything you need, just let me know. She seems to have taken a shine to you.”
I nodded again. “Thanks. I don’t need anything. I’ll soon be on my way.”
He went back inside and I called Ted Wallace.
&
nbsp; “Yeah.”
“Good morning. Anything to report? Do I need to come in?”
“Yes and no. Yes I have something to report, no, it is not worth your coming in.”
“OK, shoot.”
“Nothing happened during the night, at all, except for the security patrols. And that means we have a problem. This is Malibu, ninety percent of the inhabitants are multimillionaires and above. You saw yourself, there are very few cars parked on the road, everybody has their own garage. The cars that are parked on the road go back to Poorlandia at night. If we keep these two cars alternating in the same area, long before a week is up, they are going to become conspicuous. If it was a Bentley, or an Aston Martin, people would assume it was somebody visiting a friend, but two mid-range saloons alternating every twelve hours for a week?”
“Rent a couple of cars. Put it down to expenses.”
“It is still going to be conspicuous. I am telling you, nothing ever happens in Malibu. You’re staking out a house on a street where the most exciting thing that ever happens is that Jack Nicholson takes his dog for a walk, and now you want to put two unidentified cars within a hundred yards of Aaron Fenninger’s house, for a week. You may as well paint them day glow yellow and put a neon arrow on the roof. These people employ high end security. You’re not talking ex-cops here, you’re talking ex-special ops and secret service. Somebody is going to notice. As of today we are going to be sticking out like luminous dicks.”
I knew he was right. It had struck me the first time I went there. I asked him, “Any suggestions?”
“Nope. If I knew what this was about, maybe. But right now all I can tell you is we will be noticed—if we haven’t been already.”
“Can you try to look like paparazzi?”
He sighed noisily. “Will that do it for you? You don’t mind being seen as long as they don’t know it’s you?”
“That’ll do it.”
“You’re the boss.”
“I’ll talk to you later. Anything you think is important, you can get me on this number.”
I hung up, poured the last of the coffee, lit a cigarette and sat smoking and thinking. There were four prime locations where I could make the hit: one, at home, where security would be high and a getaway could be difficult and risky; two, at his office on Sunset Boulevard, where I knew security was not very high and a getaway would be easier, because I had nine million people among whom I could get lost after the hit; three, Intelligent Imaging Consultants, where much the same applied only I was pretty sure security would be higher—I would find out in a couple of hours—and finally, four, en route between his house and either his office or Intelligent Imaging Consultants.
So far I liked the last option the best. From the limited intel I had so far, I knew he drove himself in an F-Type Jaguar. I had no reason to believe that it was armored in any way and, when I had tailed him, he’d had the window down. Pulling up beside him in the Zombie would be easy, and if I chose my spot with care, the getaway would be a cinch.
For the sake of completeness I would make sure he followed the same routine for the next day or two, and if he did, I told myself I’d make the hit before the week was out. That left only one thing to decide—and that was, how to destroy his work with him. That might not be so easy, because most of his work seemed to be done by Intelligent Imaging Consultants.
At ten I collected a couple of micro-bugs from my kit bag, drove downtown again and left the Silverado at the USC Shrine Parking Structure on Jefferson Boulevard. Then I went up a floor in the elevator and collected the Zombie. After that I drove to Macy’s on W 7th St and bought myself the most expensive Italian suit I could find. On the way I pulled over to switch the plates on the Zombie, telling myself I needed to automate the process, like James Bond’s Aston Martin, and drove the two blocks to the Ernst and Young Plaza building. I had a cup of coffee and turned up ten minutes late for the meeting, wearing a pair of black wayfarers and a bad attitude.
The receptionist gave me a bright sparkling smile out of big, baby blue eyes, but before she could charm me with her Tinkerbell voice I said, “I’m late. I’m here to see Ahmed Musa. Franklin, like the President. That’s me. I’m late. What can I do? This is L.A. Nothing works like it’s supposed to. I can’t come back, I godda see him now.”
She buzzed him and just for fun I kept talking over her while she tried to tell him I was there. She wasn’t fazed. She hung up and kept right on smiling as she pointed to a door and said, “Mr Musa is expecting you, Mr. Franklin. It’s that door over there. You’ll see his name on it.”
I crossed reception, past a couple of potted palms, and came to a walnut door with an engraved brass plaque on it that bore the name Ahmed Musa. It opened before I could knock and I stood looking at a tall, willowy man in an expensive beige suit that looked like it had been really well tailored for somebody else. His hair was well cut and he had a carefully trimmed beard and moustache. Her smiled at me from intelligent, yellow eyes and held out his hand.
“Mr. Franklin.”
I spread my hands, then shook his. “I’m late.” I said. “I’m never late, but today I’m late. Nothing works in L.A. The Golden State, but nothing works.”
“Please, don’t worry, come in and make yourself at home. May I offer you a drink?”
I checked my watch as I stepped in. “I haven’t had a good martini in a week. I wouldn’t say no to a good martini. If you can produce a good martini.”
He gave a deep, comfortable chortle. “You are in luck. I make a passable martini, though I say so myself.”
I had a look around while he mixed the drinks. It was expensively unremarkable. “May I look out of your window? Do you mind? That’s one hell of a view you got there.”
I went and stood with one hand on the window frame and the other in my pocket, looking down. We were on the top floor, so the view was spectacular. “It’s not New York, but it’s pretty good.”
I went and looked at the view from the other end of the window. “This is a view. You know? We build’em taller, but most of the time you got another one in front of you. So no matter how fuckin’ high you go, you still got no view. You got a view.”
He laughed but didn’t say anything. I studied the room again. He had the stock leather furniture, the oak bookcases, the credenza and the oversized oak desk. There were no Picassos on the wall.
He turned to face me with two martinis in his hands. “Please,” he said, “take a seat, enjoy your drink, relax and tell me how you think we can help you.”
I moved back across the room, took the drink and sat.
As I sipped he said, “I hope it’s up to your New York standards.”
It was, but I made a slightly disappointed face. “It’s good. No, it’s good.”
He sipped his own and calibrated me with his eyes. “You are seeking to make a substantial investment, Mr. Franklin.”
I nodded, put my glass down and sat back in my chair. “I represent a number of men, from New York and New Jersey—and some other places.” I studied his face to see if he was going to react. All he did was blink. He had registered that I represented the Mafia, and now he was going to attribute any oddness in my questions or my behaviour to the fact that the Mafia were seeking to whitewash money through his firm. I just hoped they weren’t already doing that.
I went on, “Initially we are looking to make an investment of about twenty million. If things work out, we might invest more in the future.”
He frowned. “That is a very sizeable sum of money. What do you expect from us in return for that kind of investment, Mr. Franklin?”
I smiled at him all over one side of my face. “We’re looking to get into the movie industry, Mr. Musa. But we’re looking forward, you know what I’m sayin’? We’re askin’ questions about where the industry’s going. And we have the impression…” I paused and nodded a lot, like I thought I’d chosen a really good word. “We have the impression that the role of cinema and TV, and computers, is going to be
a lot more significant in coming years.”
I watched him a moment. He raised his eyebrows to answer and I interrupted. “You know what? I look at my kids and I don’t see kids anymore. What I see is creatures who are being programmed. Creatures who are being taught how to behave, not by their mom or their dad, or their grandparents, or, God forbid! The padre, like we were, but by role models who don’t even exist. And I look out there…” I pointed at the window. “And I see nine million sheep, goin’ around buyin’ what they’re told to buy, going on holiday where they’re told to go on holiday, bein’ happy, sad, emotional, cool, when and where and how they are told to—by the TV. Jesus!” I looked around like there were people watching me. “They’re even deciding whether to fuck guys or women, based on what the TV is telling them!”
We sat staring at each other for a long moment. He was waiting for a cue. I gave it to him. I said, “I see that, and I think, ‘I want a piece of that goddamn action!’”
He smiled and nodded. “There is a lot of truth in what you say, and I think you are very wise to want to get in on the ground floor. This is certainly the future.”
“You better believe it, pal. So we were thinking we want to make a movie.”
He looked surprised and his eyebrows shot up. “You want to make a movie?”
I looked around the room, like I was surprised. “There’s an echo!” I laughed loudly and he laughed back, tolerantly.
When we’d finished laughing he said, “Have you a story, a manuscript, something… Or do you just want to invest in a movie?”
“No. We got a manuscript. See, we don’t wanna make just any old movie.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t?”
