Day After Tomorrow

by Mack Reynolds

  It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. “A teenager!”

  “We’ve had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the maitre d’ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others jibe. She’s bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankest shop in town; a dress at Chez Marie—she passed three fifties there—and a hat at Paulette’s over on Monroe street.

  “That’s another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a small item and gets change for his counterfeit bill. Our girl’s been buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in her change.”

  “This doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You have any ideas at all?”

  “The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that puts it in your lap again, possibly—”

  The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and said, “Yeah? Steven Hackett speaking.”

  He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Larry,” he snapped. “This is it.” He fished down into a desk drawer, came up with a gyro-jet pistol, which he flicked expertly into a shoulder holster rig beneath his left arm.

  Larry stood too. “What was that?”

  “Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let’s go!”

  Larry followed him, saying mildly, “If it’s just a teenage kid, why the shooter?”

  Steve looked back at him, over his shoulder. “How do we know this crackpot kid didn’t spend one of her fifties for a nice little pearl handled root-a-toot-tooter? A teenager can put just as big a hole in you as anybody else. Besides, maybe she’s just a front for some guy who is in the background, letting her do the dirty work.”

  IV

  La Calvados was the swankest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a city not devoid of swank restaurants. It duplicated the decor of Maxim’s in Paris, and was very red carpeted and plush indeed. Only the upper echelons in government circles could afford its tariffs, the clientele was more apt to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending money far beyond your obvious pay status.

  Fredrick, the maitre d’ hotel, however, was able to greet them both by name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn’t approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were picked up by the authorities.

  “Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room.

  Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you didn’t expect to, ah, arrest the young lady here during our luncheon hour?”

  Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don’t exactly beat them over the head with blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the paddy-wagon.”

  “Of course not, Monsieur, but…” Larry Woolford’s chief dined here several times a week and was possibly on the best of terms with Fredrick—whose decisions on tables and whose degree of servility had a good deal of influence on a man’s prestige in Greater Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is she?”

  “Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rather gauche type?”

  It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in the attempt to project sophistication. Larry assumed she was a Tri-Di fan incomparable. Steve said, “Do you know who she is?”

  “No,” Fredrick said, nostrils high. “Hardly our usual clientele.”

  “Oh?” Larry said. “She looks like money.”

  Fredrick said, “Her clothing would seem to be derived from the Chez Marie but she wears it as though it came from Kleins, and she is much too young to wear a blouse so transparent as to reveal her bosom in such fashion. Her perfume is Chanel, but she has used approximately three times the quantity one would expect. Besides, Chanel is not in now, it has lost status of recent date.”

  Larry hadn’t known that last. He must remember not to give Chanel as a present.

  “That’s our girl, all right,” Steve murmured. “Where can we keep an eye on her until she leaves?”

  “Why not the bar here, Messieurs?”

  “Why not?” Larry said. “I could use a drink.”

  Fredrick cleared his throat. “Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over to you. I suppose it turned out to be spurious?”

  Steve grinned at him. “Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it.”

  Larry Woolford took out his wallet. “However, we have a certain leeway on expenses on this assignment and appreciate your cooperation.” He handed two twenties and a ten to the maitre d’. Fredrick bowed low, the money disappearing into his clothes magically. “Merci bien, Monsieur.”

  At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that first? He’ll get down on his knees and bump his head each time he sees you in the joint from now on.”

  Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status-conscious town, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss’ job, maybe we can swing you a transfer and I’ll give you a position suitable to your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Though come to think of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you’re holding now.”

  “Vodka Martini,” Steve told the bartender. “Polish vodka, of course.”

  “Of course,” the bartender said.

  Larry said. “Same for me.”

  The bartender left and Steve muttered, “I hate vodka.”

  “Yeah,” Larry said. “But what are you going to do in a place like this, order some weird drink, like a highball or something? Vodka’s in. Suppose somebody saw you drinking a gin cocktail.”

  Steve dug into his pocket for money. “We’re not going to have to drink them anyway. Here she comes.”

  She walked with her head high, hauteur in every step, ignoring the peasants at the tables she passed. Her youthful breasts bobbed gently in her diaphanous blouse as she progressed. She looked like a young, prosperous, but unpracticed tart.

  “Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It’s a wonder that Fredrick let her in. She looks like a young weird.”

  “He let her in when she crossed his palm with half a bill,” Larry said cynically. “She has a nice pair of knockers, though.”

  Steve looked at him, even as he paid up for their untouched drinks. “You one of these types that goes for kids?”

  “I go for anything that has one of those things,” Larry leered back at him.

  The girl hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurant, allowing the passers-by to realize that she had just emerged, and then turned to her right to promenade along the shopping street.

  Larry and Steve trailed after her. Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, “Okay, this is it. Let’s go, Woolford.”

  One stepped to one elbow, the other the other. Steve said, “I wonder if we could ask you a few questions, Miss?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon!”

  Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping it inconspicuous. “Secret Service, Miss,” he murmured.

  “Oh, devil,” she said. She looked at at Larry Woolford, then back at Steve.

  Steve said, “Among other things, we’re in charge of counterfeit money.”

  She was about five foot four in her heels, had obviously been on a round of beauty shops and had obviously instructed them to glamourize her. It hadn’t come off. She still looked as though she’d be more at home as cheerleader of the junior class in a small time school. She was honey blond, green-gray of eye, and had that complexion they seldom carry even into the twenties. Her figure wasn’t at all bad, for her age. In another half-dozen years she was going to be one gorgeous dish.

  She said, a trifle shrilly, “I… I don’t know wha
t you’re talking about.” Her chin began to tremble and she held her elbows tight against her sides, as though in rejection of this whole situation. The gesture seemed to make her young semi-bared breasts more prominent.

  Larry said gently, “Don’t worry, Miss. We just want to ask you some questions.”

  “Well… like what?” She was going to be blinking back tears in a moment. At least Larry hoped she’d blink them back. He’d hate to have her start howling here in public.

  Larry said, “We think you can be of assistance to the government, and we’d like your help.”

  Steve rolled his eyes upward at that, but turned and waved for a street level cab.

  In the cab, Larry said, “Suppose we go over to my office, Steve. It’s closer.”

  “Okay with me,” Steve muttered, “But by the looks of the young lady here, I think it’s a false alarm from your angle. She’s obviously an American. What’s your name, Miss?”

  “It’s Zusanette. Well, really, Susan.”

  “Susan what?”

  “I… I’m not sure I want to tell you. I… I want a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer!” Steve snorted. “You mean you want the juvenile authorities, don’t you?”

  “Oh, what a mean thing to say,” she sputtered.

  “Yeah, well, can’t you cover up those two things?” Steve said, staring at her breasts, the nipples of which could clearly be made out through her Cretean revival blouse. “My friend, here, is lecherous.”

  “Oh, what a mean thing to say,” Larry murmured.

  In the corridor, outside the Boss’ suite of offices, Larry said to Steve, “You take Miss… ah, Zusanette to my office, will you Steve? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He opened the door to the anteroom and said, “LaVerne, we’ve got a girl in my office——”

  “Why, Larry! And what a place to take a girl. Why don’t you go to a hotel?”

  He glowered at her. “A suspect. I want a complete tape of everything said. As soon as we’re through, have copies made, at least three or four.”

  “And who, Mr. Woolford, was your girl Friday last year?”

  “This is important, honey. I suppose you’ve supplied me with a secretary, but I haven’t even met her yet. Take care of it, will you?”

  “Sure enough, Larry.”

  He followed Steve and the girl into his office.

  Once seated, the girl and Steve in the only two extra chairs the cubicle boasted and Larry behind his desk, he looked at her in what he hoped was reassurance. “Just tell us where you got the money, Zusanette.”

  Steve Hackett reached out a hand suddenly and grabbed up her bag from her lap. She gasped and snatched at it, but he eluded her and she sat back, her chin trembling again.

  The Secret Service man unsnapped the bag, put a hand in and came up with a thick sheaf of bills, the top ones, at least, all fifties. He tossed them to Larry’s desk and resumed the search. He took out a school pass and read, “Susan Self, 418 Elwood Avenue.” He looked up and said to Larry, “That’s right off Eastern, near Paterson Park in the Baltimore section of town, isn’t it?”

  Larry said to her, “Zusanette, I think you had better tell us where you got all this money.”

  “I found it,” she said defiantly. “You can’t do anything to me if I simply found it. Anybody can find money. Finders keepers and losers…”

  “But if it’s counterfeit,” Steve interrupted dryly, “it might also be, finders weepers.”

  “Where did you find it, Zusanette?” Larry said gently.

  She tightened her lips and the trembling of her chin disappeared. “I… I can’t tell you that. But it’s not counterfeit. Daddy… my father, said it was as good as any money the government prints.”

  “That it is.” Steve’s voice was sour. “But it’s still counterfeit, which makes it very illegal indeed to spend, Miss Self.”

  She looked from one of them to the other, not clear about her position. She said to Larry, “You mean it’s not real money?”

  He kept his tone disarming, but shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Zusanette. Now, tell us, where did you find it?”

  “I can’t. I promised.”

  “I see. Then you don’t know to whom it originally belonged?”

  “It didn’t belong to anybody.”

  Steve Hackett made with a disbelieving whistle. He was taking the part of the tough, suspicious cop; Larry the part of the understanding, sympathetic officer, trying to give the suspect a break.

  Susan Self turned quickly on Steve. “Well, it didn’t. You don’t even know.”

  Larry said, “I think she’s telling the truth, Steve. Give her a chance. She’s playing fair.” He looked back at the girl and frowned his puzzlement. “But all money belongs to somebody, doesn’t it?”

  She had them now. She said superiorly, “Not necessarily to somebody. It can belong to, like, an organization.”

  Steve grunted scepticism. “I think we ought to arrest her,” he said.

  Larry held up a hand, his face registering opposition. “I’ll handle this,” he said sharply. “Zusanette is doing everything she can to cooperate.” He turned back to the girl. “Now, the question is, what organization did this money belong to?”

  She looked triumphantly at Steve Hackett. “It belonged to the Movement.”

  They both looked at her.

  Steve said finally, “What movement?”

  She pouted in thought. “That’s the only name they call it.”

  “Who’s they?” Steve snapped nastily.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Larry said, “Well, you already told us your father was a member, Zusanette.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I did? I shouldn’t have said that.” But she evidently took him at his word.

  Larry said encouragingly, “We might as well go on. Who else is a member of this Movement besides your father?”

  She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “I don’t know any of their names.”

  Steve looked down at the school pass he still held in his hands. He said to Larry, “I’d better make a phone call.”

  “Yeah, obviously,” Larry said.

  Steve left.

  Larry said to the girl, “Don’t worry about him, Zusanette. Now then, this Movement. That’s kind of a funny name, isn’t it? What does it mean?”

  She was evidently glad that the less than handsome Steve Hackett had left the office. Her words flowed more freely. “Well, Daddy says they call it the Movement rather than a revolution.”

  An ice cube manifested itself in the stomach of Lawrence Woolford.

  V

  She was saying, “Because people get conditioned, like, to words. Like revolution. Everybody is against the word because they all think of killing and everything, and Daddy says that there doesn’t have to be any shooting or killing or anything like that at all. It just means a fundamental change in society. And, Daddy says, take the word propaganda. Everybody’s got to thinking that it automatically means lies, but it doesn’t at all. It just means, like, the arguments you use to convince people that what you stand for is right and it might be lies or not. And, Daddy says, take the word socialism. So many people have the wrong idea of what it means that the socialists ought to scrap the word and start using something else to mean what they stand for.”

  Larry said gently, “Your father is a socialist?”

  “Oh, no.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Oh, a Communist, eh?”

  Susan Self was indignant. “Daddy thinks the Communists are strictly awful, really weird.”

  Steve Hackett came back into the office, obviously less than happy. He said to Larry, “I sent a couple of the boys out to pick him up in a jet-helio.”

  Susan was on her feet, a hand to mouth. “You mean my father! You’re going to arrest him!”

  Larry said soothingly. “Sit down, Zusanette. There’s a lot of things about this that I’m sure your father can explain.” He said to Steve, “She tells me that
the money belonged to a Movement. A revolutionary Movement which doesn’t use the term revolutionary because people react unfavorably to that word. It’s not Commie.”

  Susan said indignantly, “It’s American, not anything foreign!”

  Steve growled. “Let’s get back to the money. What’s this movement doing with a lot of counterfeit bills and where did you find them?”

  She evidently figured she’d gone too far now to make a stand. “It’s not Daddy’s fault,” she told them. “He took me to headquarters twice.”

  “Where’s headquarters?” Larry said, trying to keep his voice soothing. They were going to wind this up and he could get back to his vacation before the day was out.

  She frowned. “Well, I don’t know, really. Daddy was awfully silly about it. He tied his handkerchief around my eyes near the end. But the others complained about me anyway, and Daddy got awfully mad and said something about the young people of the country participating in their emancipation and all, but the others got mad too and said there wasn’t any kind of help I could do around headquarters anyway, and I’d be better off in school. Everybody got awfully mad, but after the second time Daddy promised not to take me to headquarters any more.”

  “And where did you find the money, Zusanette?” Larry said.

  “At headquarters. There’s tons and tons of it there.”

  Larry cleared his throat and said, “When you say tons and tons, you mean a great deal of it, eh?”

  She was proudly defiant. “I mean tons and tons. A ton is two thousand pounds.”

  “Now look, Zusanette,” Larry said reasonably. “I don’t know exactly how much money weighs, not exactly, but let’s say a pound would be, say, a thousand bills.” He took a pencil up from the desk and scribbled on a pad before him. “A pound of fifties would be $50,000. Then if you multiplied that by 2,000 pounds to make a ton, you’d have $100,000,000. And you say there’s tons and tons?”

  “And that’s just the fifties,” Susan said triumphantly. “So you can see the two little packages I picked up aren’t really important at all. It’s just like I found them.”