by PJ Manney
“But will he come to you?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m pissing on his territory, and he can’t resist the challenge.” He smiled. “And he thinks I’m damaged goods, so he’ll tell Brant he’s got a live one.”
It was Fourth of July weekend, and the housewarming-birthday party of the decade was in full swing on Carbon Beach, Billionaire’s Row. Thirty-million-dollar homes, many left empty for weeks and months, were filled with the flotsam and jetsam of renters, weekenders, and staff, and crammed cheek to jowl along the beach’s length with hardly an arm’s length between them. Relentless competition for attention was reflected in the try-hard or location-deaf architecture.
The town hosted Los Angeles’s best Independence Day parties, and everyone turned up, from the most powerful to the most beautiful to the most talented to the most ballsy. If you were none of these, you still came. A need to belong to the in-crowd brought some. Curiosity or voyeurism brought others. Many could talk their way in, but it was simpler for the hoi polloi just to walk in—via the beach.
The birthday boy invited all his Carbon Beach neighbors, as well as those from the neighboring, star-studded beach enclaves, encouraging them to fold their own parties into his if they wished. In a community where narcissism was a survival trait, many neighbors complained, “Who the hell is this guy who thinks his party is more important than mine?” But as rumors circulated months in advance, one by one the neighbors conceded, “Well, maybe this year I’ll let someone else shoulder a big blowout . . .”
Only one neighbor refused to cooperate.
The host (or at least his party planners) thought of everything. Amazing food and drink, served by beautiful, scantily clad young people; fantastic music performed by world-famous bands—including Garth Brooks out of retirement for the umpteenth time to sing the National Anthem. The host didn’t hire a barge of fireworks; he hired dozens of barges to light up the Malibu coastline two nights in a row prior. He rented adjacent houses for spillover from his own enormous house, a Richard Meier beauty crafted from golden teak, concrete, and glass.
Tom was eager to arrive at this over-the-top party.
Because it was his.
The captain of the Pequod furled her sails to pull up her huge keel’s centerboard and motor to Malibu Pier. Waves and a light breeze gently rocked the masts, and a string of brightly colored signal flags danced from the bow along the tops of her masts and down to her stern, as though to say, “The party’s here!” In fact, each flag represented a letter of the alphabet and spelled out a discreet message only professional sailors could decipher: “In every well-governed state, wealth is a sacred thing; in democracies, it is the only sacred thing. Anatole France.”
If the massive, otherworldly ship pulling up to the dock didn’t garner enough attention, the owner’s next stunt did.
On the aft deck of the Pequod, Tom stood in the center of a shiny silver disk only eight feet wide and three feet thick, wearing an elegant white suit and T-shirt, setting off the dark tan of his skin and the matching shock of pure white hair atop his head. Like Michael Rennie from The Day the Earth Stood Still, his hovercraft rose vertically like a Harrier jet. It hung for a moment above the deck before it took off to the east along Carbon Beach. Tom remained balanced atop. The music stopped, and the sounds of the party faded to silence as people watched in amazement. A musician turned to an odd box with two antennas and waved his hands around them. It was a theremin, invented in 1919, and one of the earliest electronic musical instruments. Eerie sci-fi sounds poured from its speakers as the musician controlled the pitch and volume with graceful gestures like a magician conjuring doves from thin air. As Tom’s craft settled on the sand in front of his beach house deck, a huge crowd formed around him, people yelling, “Whoa, man!” and “What’s that thing?”
“People deny the acceleration of technological progress by demanding ‘Where’s my jet pack? Where’s my jet pack?’ I don’t need no stinkin’ jet pack! I got a flying saucer!”
“Who are you?” someone yelled.
He threw his arms open wide. “I’m Thomas Paine, the birthday boy!” The crowd cheered.
Standing next to the craft, Talia took his extended hand, and he stepped onto the sand to be led to his guests. A line formed of those ready and eager to try the floating contraption themselves.
The theremin’s hum dissolved into a rousing cover of the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations,” complete with theremin solo and Brian Wilson singing. He segued into another theremin-inspired hit, “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times,” but only Tom and Talia appreciated the irony.
This was the mystery man’s official debut. His avatar had been very busy until now, creating a googleable presence and persona without having to be in Los Angeles. Guests became instant reporters and trotted alongside the couple with recording GOs extended in front of them. One guy yelled, “How the hell can a blind guy pull off a stunt like that?”
“Magic,” replied the host.
“That was fuckin’ Kodak courage, man!” a surfer dude screamed, fist pumping the air.
Hundreds of videos were posted on NarcisCity’s and Youniverse’s portals within minutes. Tom mentally surfed them as the party continued. Overnight, Thomas Paine’s arrival on his flying saucer was the most viewed event on the planet.
Everyone on the beach sober, intelligent, or old enough to understand focused on Paine, the handsome, cool, blazingly intelligent, yet controversial billionaire, who happened to be blind. And there was no denying the guy was a star. His mojo was palpable, with something for everybody: mature good looks for the daddy lovers, style for the metrosexuals, and brains for the sapiosexuals. Projecting their physical insecurities, rampant in the SoCal body-conscious culture, onto his disability, women were instantly attracted to his comforting blindness as something they could simultaneously capitalize on and mother. Men were not immune to the billionaire’s charms. He was as bi-sexy as Brad Pitt. One look at Talia, his arm candy, and his sexual market value went sky-high across genders. Every guy wanted to be him.
A prickly feeling set the hair on Tom’s body erect. “He’s coming,” he murmured to her. He let Talia decide whether he had technological evidence or not.
Within a minute, Bruce Lobo limped barefoot along the sand in rolled-up khakis, an untucked French-cuffed shirt, and blacked-out aviator sunglasses, arm in arm with Vera, the prostitute from camp. Her presence was unexpected. Was she just his expensive chew toy? An über-pro to screw on a regular basis? Or more? The beauty wore a gold bikini top and gold-embroidered sarong with at least a million bucks in diamonds dripping from various parts of her. Lobo’s two de rigueur bodyguards discreetly hovered behind. So did two dozen others, dressed like wealthy partygoers. But they were clearly in Lobo’s posse.
With obvious calculation, Lobo and his gang stopped directly in front of Talia and Tom, a standoff in the sand. Lobo stared in surprise, seeing Talia arm in arm with the mystery man. He had no love for the journalist, who had bashed him repeatedly in print. He puffed up his stance and bristled, a pit bull ready for a jaw-locking fight.
Talia said quietly in Tom’s ear. “Bruce Lobo and . . . friend . . . and more friends.”
Tom’s face lit up. “Hello, neighbor!”
“You didn’t get my attorney’s letter?”
Tom’s smile only dimmed slightly. “What letter?”
“The cease and desist regarding this party?”
“What needs ceasing and desisting?”
“Your party’s too big. It’s on my property and interfering with my own event.”
“How is a public beach your property?”
“I own a dozen houses here. It’s mine.”
“I believe you never ask permission. Only forgiveness . . .” Tom smiled broadly.
Vera contained a laugh.
“Please,” continued Tom. “Come inside and have a drink, relax, and let’s talk about this. Your friends are certainly welcome.”
Talia ignored the mo
gul and reached across to offer her hand to Vera. “We’ve never met. I’m Talia Brooks. Welcome to our party.”
“Hello. Vera Kostina,” she purred.
Surfing his mental Internet rapidly, Tom found a Russian phrase book and audible pronunciation guide. “Menja zovut Thomas Paine,” he replied with a slight bow and his hand extended toward her voice.
She shook it, delighted. “You speak Russian!”
“Vyochen’ dobry. Ja nemnogo govorju po-russki.”
“What’s he saying?” demanded Lobo.
“He’s making excuses for his Russian. But he’s being modest. His accent is excellent.”
A server with waist-length blond hair, a body to compete with Vera’s, and wearing a stars-and-stripes bikini, appeared with a tray and offered champagne. Bruce grabbed a glass, turned his back to Talia and Tom, and gestured to his group. They walked with determination toward Tom’s house.
Tom hid his concern, but turned to Talia. “I hear people leaving?”
Before Talia could answer, Vera took a glass and changed the subject. “I’ve been aboard your yacht with a previous owner. She’s extraordinary. But she had a different name. So I must ask, what’s ‘Pequod’?”
Bruce’s minions climbed the deck stairs into his house. Tom wanted to follow them, but couldn’t ignore Vera’s question without raising Bruce’s suspicions. “It’s the name of the whaling ship in Moby-Dick. She’s three-masted like the one in the novel.”
“But what does the name mean?”
“The Pequot were a tribe of Native Americans who were destroyed by the New England Puritans only seventeen years after the Mayflower landed. Smallpox killed most of them. Then the survivors fought the Puritans . . . and lost. When Melville wrote his story, he thought the Pequot were tragically extinct. But they weren’t . . .” Paine grinned. “Instead, they got their revenge. They sued the government in 1976 to give them back their land in the middle of Connecticut—and won in 1983—and they have one of the largest casinos in the world. They’re rich. Used our own avarice against us.”
Meanwhile, he directed his internal connections to the in-house security cameras. Bruce’s horde was spreading through the house like a plague, looking for electronics and discreetly placing bugs. With staff and guests around the house, they worked carefully not to be discovered. Two made it into Tom’s office and surreptitiously placed a tiny device on the rear of his HOME screen. He and the mysterious Miss Gray Hat had noticed an unusual number of cyber attacks on his HOME system in the last month. No one had penetrated his firewalls, but it was obvious now who was prepared to get his information from the inside. If he reacted in panic and shut down their access at once, they’d know he’d discovered them. He hailed Miss Gray Hat through the brain implant and alerted her to the intruders so she would not fall into their traps and could secure their networks from further trespassers. Two more operatives made it upstairs to the master bedroom. They were wiping for skin cells, grabbing hair from brushes.
It was a good thing Tom had never stepped foot in the house. The cells and hair they collected were planted, having been previously procured from a foreign national not found on any biomarker database. The data would reveal a ghost. Tom had prepared for that.
“But you don’t find Pequod a depressing name for a pleasure craft?” Vera purred the word “pleasure” like caramel dripped from her tongue.
“No,” replied Tom. “When everyone thought they were dead, they won. I admire their tenacity. It took three hundred fifty years. High-quality revenge takes time.”
Lobo stepped forward. “I’m tenacious, too. And I’m not letting this go, Paine.”
“I understand, Bruce. Please, let’s go inside and discuss this,” said Tom.
“I’d prefer to stay outside. So I can monitor the situation.”
It was a funny choice of words. Tom studied Bruce’s face more carefully. Bruce was actually monitoring the situation from contact lenses in his eyes that had a feed from his security staff.
As a garden-variety cyborg, Bruce was more like Tom than he realized. That gave Tom and Miss Gray Hat something to hack. He sent her another message. And she replied.
“Darling,” said Tom, “why don’t you give Vera a tour of the house while Bruce and I chat? You don’t mind guiding me around the party, do you, Bruce?”
“Actually, I do,” Lobo growled.
“Come now, Bruce. I’m at your mercy, am I not? You could drown me in the ocean if it gets out of hand,” he jested.
Vera sighed. “Time for boys to smoke cigars and girls to do needlepoint.”
“It’s easier than ignoring their macho mind games,” grinned Talia.
“I like her!” Vera said to Bruce. He snorted in return.
“Talia?” asked Tom. “Would you get my GO-B out of the office? I want to confirm we received Bruce’s letter.”
“GO-B?” asked Bruce as he blinked repeatedly. Something was wrong with his feed. Miss Gray Hat had successfully attacked him.
“A GO-B is for blind people. Braille keys, voice recognition, dictation, and playback, verbal and aural GPS. All the disability bells and whistles. I call it the third lobe of my brain. Almost makes blindness irrelevant.”
Bruce grabbed the GO in his pocket. “Almost. Excuse me, I’ve got a message.” But he didn’t. He was sending one. Within thirty seconds, his team was leaving the house. But the damage had been done.
“Shall we?” Tom asked Bruce as he extended his hand. But Bruce was at a loss. “May I put a finger under your left elbow? That way you’re guiding me, but not leading me.” The two bodyguards, alert with nervous energy, moved a foot closer to their boss.
Bruce slowly raised his right hand, then handed back his champagne flute with his left. “Uh . . . okay . . .” Every macho cell inflamed with Tom’s physical proximity.
Gently touching Bruce’s elbow made Tom’s neurons replay their fight in the Biogineers conference room. His ribs ached in memory. He turned down his internal mental volume. “Now go ahead. Walk around.”
Bruce moved with caution across the sand, towing his host.
“You’ve caught on quickly how to lead me,” said Tom.
“I have?”
“Yes. Some people want to control the disabled. They think that a lack of independence is more helpful. But your discomfort and, if you’ll allow me to say, your not wanting to help me is more helpful than someone determined to help more than I need. Coercion is the most disorienting aid of all . . . for a blind man.”
“Where the hell do you come from?” blurted Bruce.
Tom played confused. “I live four doors down from you.”
“I never heard of you before the last few months. And I didn’t see you until today. You’re not from California.”
“Ah. Well, I haven’t lived in the States for a very long time. When I went blind, twenty years ago, my world became very small, only to the end of my fingertips and my cane and as far as I could hear. Since my work is in no way location dependent, it was simply easier to run away from my problems and live on a boat. Go anywhere, do anything. Or not. No one knew me and I liked it that way. Granted, the boats got bigger over time . . .”
Lobo eyed the yacht enviously. “Yeah, you’ll need an aircraft carrier and a teleporter next.”
“And why not, if I have the means? Don’t we all create our own little worlds?”
“So why plant your flag here?” Bruce asked.
Tom smiled. “On your beach?”
Bruce did not smile in return. “Yeah.”
“You can only run away for so long before it screws with your head. And I’ve got a lot to offer. I’ve gained a great deal of objectivity from decades of globe-trotting, and I’m arrogant enough to think I know what’s wrong with our country. And the world. And I’m in a position to make a difference. Others have done the same. Why not me? And as we both know, advertising works. Carbon Beach is a billionaire’s Schwab’s Drug Store, and I’m Lana Turner.”
“That’s
not what I heard.”
Tom’s face pinched in concern. “What do you mean?”
“I heard you’re in trouble with some Russian oligarchs over water rights in Central Asia. I think you’re here to hide out from your nasty pals, kiss up to your former countrymen, and get a bailout. What makes you think anyone wants to help you when we can buy you out for pennies on the dollar? Hell, that boat costs so much in upkeep, I could get you to pay me to take it off your hands.”
Tom stiffened. “So you think you’ve got me cornered?”
“I think this is one hell of a show, and you need help. And I might be able to provide that. For a price.” Bruce smiled broadly to a passing neighbor who owned a media empire.
The fish bit the hook. Tom sent Miss Gray Hat a message: Disinformation Phase I successful. Time for Phase II. Search/destroy/co-opt plan for bugs ASAP. Hopefully, Bruce and the club found nothing inadvertently useful in Bruce’s bold attack. But Tom and his cracker would never be completely sure.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
In the week between the party and his summons to visit Josiah Brant, Thomas Paine underwent the most thorough background check in history. He had no idea if his creation passed the test. Miss Gray Hat could only say from her analysis that the information had been gathered. But not how it had been received.
He also underwent the gauntlet of public opinion. From the party to planted PR stories in a variety of outlets, it was clear to the mediaverse that Thomas Paine was a star. Everyone wanted to know more about the mysterious blind billionaire.
Tom did his own background checks and, in the process, found David Brant. The blind son of Margaret and Josiah Brant had a minimal Internet profile, mostly chatrooms on old video-gaming-for-the-blind and role-playing sites and alumni fundraising lists from Yale University. Miss Gray Hat uncovered his whereabouts through insurance and Social Security records: an easy drive from Phoenix Camp in Carson City, Nevada, at a special long-term addiction rehabilitation facility called Evermore. He’d been an inpatient there for video-gaming and Internet addiction for the last fifteen years. Hacked medical files indicated that his continual immersive escape in a virtual world, so unlike his own, made him irrationally angry at the real world and the people in it. And the more the Brants had tried to get Davy to live up to familial expectations, the more the young man rebelled. The Brant family had encouraged the facility to keep him there indefinitely (with the help of fifty thousand dollars a month) due to his “violent hatred of his father.” That was enough to get a Nevada judge to sign away David Brant to medical imprisonment for as long as the Brants desired.
