by Dani Lamia
9
With Dad’s shocking words echoing in our heads, we all sit stunned. Sensing the mood, Angelo Marino walks over to the projector and pauses the feed. Our father’s affable face still fills the screen, but his eyes are slitted, mid-blink.
“What the hell is going on?” I say. “A game? Like in a bad sitcom?”
Henley walks over to our father’s sideboard and takes down two glasses. He fills them each with the Japanese bourbon that our father liked so much. He takes a big sip and then brings me the other glass. Bernard, scowling at him, retrieves the bottle for himself.
“This is some kind of joke, right?” I say.
“I’m afraid not,” says Angelo Marino. “He went to elaborate lengths to set everything up before he died. I’ve been working nonstop since the body went cold to get everything in place. This is really what he wanted.”
“Then he was obviously crazy,” says Bernard. “And we don’t have to accept the will of someone obviously mentally incompetent.”
“What do you care?” says Gabriella. “It’s not like you were getting anything anyway. Maybe this way you have a shot.”
“He wasn’t crazy,” Alistair says. “I saw him every day, practically. He wasn’t any crazier at the end than he ever was. I mean, maybe he was always crazy. But if that were the case, then the reason we are all rich is because he was crazy, which I guess also means that he can dispose of his riches any crazy way that he sees fit, logically speaking.”
“Well, this is beyond crazy,” says Bernard. “This is malicious. We are all supposed to just play some game against each other for the family wealth? I think if we all just decide that we won’t do it, no court in the United States will force us to. We might have to pay higher taxes on account of ignoring his will and its network of holding companies and trusts, but I think it will be worth it.”
“He had himself checked out by four separate psychologists before making this will,” says Angelo Marino. “They all signed affidavits certifying his sanity. Those will be hard to challenge in court. Additionally, there is a corollary to the will that says that anyone who refuses to play the game will get nothing.” He pauses, letting that statement sink in. “You don’t even know what the game is yet. Do you all truly refuse to play? If that’s the case, the money will be put into a trust and eventually used for charitable endowments in African universities.”
“Gasp,” says Henley.
“Well, we can’t just give all the money away,” says Bernard. “That’s stupid and naive. Most of those countries are run by dictators.”
“What if it is something that favors one of us?” asks Gabriella. “Like poker or something. Bernard does nothing but play poker. Or it could be one of those stupid strategy games that Caitlyn loves.”
“Or what if the game is soap-making,” says Henley. “Then you would win!”
“Shut up, Henley,” says Gabriella.
“Look, we should just watch the rest of his will,” I say. “We don’t know enough to make a decision yet.”
“I think I know what the game is,” says Alistair. “Dad was making me work on something for him privately. That augmented reality stuff I showed you. I think it must be related to that.”
“There you go,” says Bernard. “So Alistair has a clear advantage.”
“No, it’s not like that,” says Alistair. “I just know some of the tech. But not any of the details.”
“Just press play, okay?” I say to Angelo Marino, exasperated.
“Of course,” he replies.
“The game will be very simple,” our father booms from the screen. “Remember how you used to love the scavenger hunt every year? Well, you will be hunting for these black boxes.”
He holds up a box about the size of an old answering machine. There is a blinking red light in one corner, but otherwise it is completely sealed without wires or ports. The ominous nature of this box that does not seem to have a function gives me goosebumps.
“You will each get three lives, as in any rudimentary video game. You will need to find a box every day, or you will lose a life. If you all manage to find the box, the last person to do so will lose a life. The winner will be the person who stays alive, plain and simple. They will get my entire fortune. The way I see it, the rest of you have been helped enough in life. I have always been there for you and you have never wanted for anything. I’m sure that you will thrive, no matter what direction you choose to take, whether that is professional gambling, professional dissipation, or professional scents and sundries. Angelo will explain any questions you might have, and as always, the real fun is in the details.” A wistful grin spreads across his face.
“As you all know, the first game I ever made was Sea Farmers, the family-friendly resource-management game of undersea farming for ages ten to infinity. What made it work was the novelty of a game where people did not compete against each other directly, through combat or by scoring points, but where people competed by being able to cultivate their coral reef the most shrewdly in order to feed all the other fish in the kingdom. Was Sea Farmers a great game? Probably not. Nylo made many better games, in my opinion. But families could play without hating each other. It was fun even if you lost. I hope this game will be similar. I hope it will bring out the best in you and not the worst.”
He looks down briefly, then brings his eyes back up to meet ours and continues in a rueful tone.
“I know that I have not always been there for you. So many children without a mother! I know that I have possibly been better at designing fun things than I have actually been at experiencing them with you. But those scavenger hunts I used to create were one of the highlights of my life. I always cherished those special days with my family, hunting around the neighborhood for clues. The tragedy that killed your mother ended all that. We never did a scavenger hunt again. But since you are now dealing with yet another tragedy, what does it matter now how gruesome my final request may be? Have fun, my children. Play honorably. But do try to win.”
Dad smiles one last time, then reaches up and switches off the camera. The screen goes black and then blue.
“Well, that’s basically it,” says Angelo Marino. “The game begins today. Every day, you have to find one of these boxes. The last person to find the box each day will lose a life. The last person left alive wins the fortune.”
“What if none of us find any of these boxes?” asks Alistair. “What if we all lose at the same time?”
“There isn’t any stipulation for such an occurrence,” says Angelo Marino. “I suspect that your father does not feel that it is possible that every single one of his children is a loser.”
It is ironic that our dad invoked Sea Farmers, a game that has possibly ruined more relationships than politics or meth. He was always a fan of those passive games where you build your little world “at” another player, competing against them indirectly but no less brutally. It is a good metaphor for business itself, but I can’t remember a time that we ever played Sea Farmers as a family that didn’t end in tears, where Gabriella or Bernard didn’t get pissed that the game itself “cheated.” Alistair or I usually won, as our corals thrived and fed the multitudes. Only Henley ever seemed to truly not care about winning or losing.
Angelo Marino reaches for the stack of briefcases by the door and hands them out one by one, checking the name engraved in the top before giving it to its new owner. We open our cases and see that inside each is a phone with our name on the back, and also a T-shirt with our father’s face on it that says “Nylo Family Scavenger Hunt 2020.”
“We’re supposed to wear these?” I say in disbelief.
“At least they’re each in our size,” says Gabriella, holding hers up against her torso.
“I’m not wearing a damn T-shirt, like this is some kind of charity fun-run,” says Bernard.
“I’m definitely wearing mine,” says Henley, s
tripping off his velvet jacket and pulling on the red shirt over his purple ribbon bowtie.
“Your father hired a game master to administer the game,” says Angelo Marino. “He will get in touch with you at noon every day to give you that day’s clue, and then you will be off to go find the box. All the game rules apply as long as you are hunting for the box, but once you find it, the rules are off for you until the next day. When you find the box, all you have to do is hold your game phone up to the box and it should click something inside that will register that you have found it.”
“This was some of the technology that he was having me develop,” Alistair notes.
“That’s not all,” continues Angelo Marino. “You get three lives, but you can trade in your lives for extra powers if you so desire. One option is to spend a life to buy transportation.”
“What do you mean by transportation?” asks Bernard.
“The usual kind: trains, planes, automobiles, etcetera. Otherwise, in the course of the game, you must walk or hitchhike everywhere. And if you hitchhike, you can’t pay for it. Nor might there be any future expectation of remuneration implied to anyone you convince to transport you.”
“How will you know whether we bribe anybody or not?” asks Bernard haughtily.
“Your phone will be recording everything you do or say,” says Angelo Marino. “It will also record everywhere you go. It is all in the rule book. You should each have one in your briefcase.”
I see that Alistair is already reading the rule book, a thin pamphlet printed on gold-embossed paper.
“I am definitely not walking anywhere,” says Henley. “I wish to spend a life on transportation, yes indeed I do. Who do I see to perform this dark magic? Is there some necrophagous clerk? Some devilish ombudsman or diabolical concierge?”
“Everyone just turn on your game phones,” Angelo Marino replies. “The first screen should guide you through the process of getting started.”
I drain my glass of bourbon and pour myself another one. I turn my phone on and am immediately greeted with a bright and cheery welcome screen. There is a short video of all of us together as children and then an eagle swoops down and rips the picture in half and eats it.
“Scavenger Hunt,” reads the title card. There is a flashing button that says “Play.” I press it and look around at my siblings as they do the same.
Now we move to a character-creation screen. My character is just me, wearing a glowing purple pantsuit. I am slightly offended by this corporate representation of who I am, but I guess we are all probably cartoons of ourselves in this game. At the top, the game shows that I have three lives left. There is a slot for my transportation and also a slot for something that says it is my “superpower.”
“What are the superpowers?” Bernard asks.
“Don’t worry about that yet,” says Angelo Marino. “Once you all click yes or no, the transportation will be randomly assigned and we can move on to the superpowers.”
I don’t want to walk everywhere. Not in this city, not in this sticky June weather. I click “yes” to transportation and then move to a loading screen, which shows me that four out of five of us have all made a decision.
“Who hasn’t decided yet?” says Henley. “Hurry up!”
Gabriella sighs dramatically. The loading screen suddenly says that all five people have made a decision, and then the app moves back to the character-selection screen. My character now says that I have the transportation “train pass.”
“Look,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed at how stupid all of this is. “Let’s agree to do this scavenger hunt but let’s also agree that whoever wins will just divide up the fortune equitably. We can have a good time playing, but let’s all agree that the victory won’t mean anything. I’m sure we can create a quick contract right here that will be legally binding. Angelo Marino? Will you draft something up like that?”
“There is no provision in the will that precludes me from drafting such a document,” says Angelo Marino. “Is that what you all want me to do?”
Nobody says anything.
“Do it,” I demand. My siblings nod in silent assent.
“I got a Lamborghini as my transportation,” says Henley with a wide grin. “Does that come with a driver?”
“I got a helicopter,” gloats Bernard.
“You better hope it comes with a pilot,” Henley says, then bursts into gleeful laughter.
10
“Wait, you mean these boxes could be hidden anywhere in the entire USA?” says Gabriella, her face falling. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
We are all slightly embarrassed for her. She is the only one of us who didn’t opt for transportation. She’ll have to walk or hitchhike.
“Listen, you and I are basically in the same boat,” says Alistair. “I got a motorcycle. I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle. In fact, you’re in better shape than me. You still have a life, whereas I wasted one of mine on this motorcycle I can’t ride. Do any of you know how to ride a motorcycle? Can we trade?”
Bernard snorts.
“Certainly not,” I say.
“So there you go,” says Alistair.
We all stare at Angelo Marino as he finishes writing out the contract, hunched over our father’s desk. He calls in an assistant and asks him to type up the contract and print out eighteen copies, three for everyone.
“Tell us about the superpowers now,” I say, once the assistant is gone.
“I don’t know much about them,” acknowledges Angelo Marino. “All I know is that you must spend another life to get them.”
“No way,” says Bernard. “Then I’ll only have one life left.”
“I might as well,” says Gabriella. “Since all the rest of you are down to two lives already.”
“Me too,” says Alistair. “The motorcycle certainly isn’t helping me.”
“I love throwing lives away,” says Henley. “Sign me up.”
The assistant returns quickly with the stack of contracts. He hands one to each of us and then leaves, shutting the door behind him. We take seats around the conference table and read over the contract, which simply says that whoever wins agrees to share the fortune five ways.
“Five equal ways?” says Alistair dubiously.
“It’s only fair,” says Henley, grinning.
“Works for me,” says Gabriella.
“Look, if I win, I will make sure everybody is taken care of,” says Alistair. “But I won’t split things equally. I will split things in a way that makes sure that we stay in business. We’ll all be compensated according to how valuable we are to the company.”
At this point, all of my siblings turn to look at me. I take a long sip of bourbon and stare at my hands.
“I’m not signing this as is,” says Alistair. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t split the fortune. I just want to do it on my terms.”
“I agree,” says Bernard, his eyes flashing. “I’m not signing either. For the same reason.”
“Oh, bullshit,” says Henley. “I trust Alistair to do the right thing, but not you. If you win, you’ll just keep all the money. Or else you’ll take it all to Macau and burn it all at the craps table.”
“Craps isn’t my game,” says Bernard. “I play poker, as you well know. And I don’t lose money.”
“Yeah, right,” says Henley.
“If I win, I will split it between the three of us who are worth a damn,” retorts Bernard. “You can get a small stipend, Henley. But the real money will go to me, Alistair, and Caitlyn.”
“Oh, fuck off,” says Henley.
“Listen,” I chime in. “The point of money in the first place is control. That is what we are really arguing about here. Control. I don’t care who gets the fortune, as long as you all agree to leave me in charge of Nylo. Do any of you seriously think you would do a better job runn
ing the company than me?”
Only Bernard seems to twitch at my question. Gabriella looks down at the table and Henley looks up at the ceiling.
“The contract benefits some of us more than it does others,” I say. “Some of us are better at games than others here and that’s what this is: a game.”
“I’m not signing,” says Bernard.
“Well, me neither,” says Alistair. “But for different reasons.”
Bernard and Alistair are my real competition, and so if they aren’t signing, the contract is essentially meaningless. We all know this, even though none of us explicitly wants to say it out loud. Henley sighs loudly and makes a big show of taking the contract and signing it with a flourish. He passes it to Gabriella, who signs right under him. They begin working their way through all eighteen copies as Angelo Marino smiles sympathetically at me. The contracts pile up in front of me and I sit there with my pen in my hand, unsure. The contract was my idea. But now?
“Look,” I say, capping the pen. “I am not signing, but I am as good as my word. If I win, Alistair and I will make sure that all of you are well compensated and that you will never have to come crawling to us for money ever again in your lives. But we will also make sure that the company is not damaged by bad publicity as a result of the insane parameters of Dad’s will leaking out to the press. The shareholders would shit themselves if we suddenly revealed that we were giving Henley four billion dollars. No offense, Henley.”
“None taken,” he says.
