by Rick Dakan
As Paul scanned the current bids, he saw that every package had at least one bid on it. And it was little wonder. Compared to the extravagant trips and gifts on display, the minimum bids were all quite reasonable.
$500 for a dinner for 6 at the French Laundry? A steal at thrice the price! A weekend with Robert Mondavi touring his wineries? If you could put a price on such an experience, it would surely be much more than the $3000 minimum bid. Of course the only things real about any of these packages were the signs describing them - and the credit card machines the marks were using to make their bids.
Paul had also insisted that they set up a number of tables where people could donate directly to specially chosen charities. These were all relatively obscure, small international aid groups and labor rights advocates that none of the guests had ever heard of. Paul correctly assumed that the party-goers would blindly give to the charities since they had the seal of approval from the right-wing group that was hosting the event. They'd never know that their cash was going to buy condoms and birth control in Africa or to support trade unions in South America. Paul himself planned to donate his share of the con to these groups - after all, he didn't need the money. This charity angle was the one area where he'd met the most resistance from some crewmembers, but Chloe and Raff had both backed him on it and so he'd gotten his way. She'd seemed impressed with his generosity.
Behind the tables stood Kurt and Popper, two of the more respectable looking Crew members. They were carefully and patiently explaining to the attendees how to use the credit card donation system. Chloe and Raff had both worried that people wouldn't accept this new innovation in silent auctioneering. Would people blithely swipe their cards into a strange machine? Paul was gratified to see that the answer was apparently yes. After all, this was Silicon Valley. Everyone here loves a new gadget.
Paul slowed down to listen to Popper as she gave her spiel to a would-be bidder.
"Good evening, ma'am," Popper said to a middle aged woman wearing incredibly large pearls and enough perfume for any five women in the room.
"Now I've never seen anything like this before," said the woman, as she looked the table over with a curious eye. "How does it work?"
"It's very simple, ma'am," Popper replied with a smile. "These are credit card machines just like you see in any department or grocery store. As you can see, each one is labeled with the name of a different auction item. You just swipe your credit or debit card and then type in the amount of your bid. You then get a printed receipt showing your bid. Only the highest bid gets charged of course. All proceeds go directly to finding the liberal terrorists responsible for drawing America down into a cesspool of communism." Paul thought this last bit was kind of over the top, but the bidder seemed to like it.
"Well, how clever is that?" chimed the woman. "Isn't technology just amazing?"
"It is indeed, ma'am."
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"And how much did you say these machines take?"
"You can bid whatever you want," Popper repeated, admirably hiding her frustration at having to deal with the same question for what was probably the hundredth time that night. "Just check the screen to see what the current bid is."
"Well, let's see here," the woman said, pulling her wallet from her purse and thumbing through the dozen or so credit cards inside. "Do you take AmEx?"
"Of course," Popper said. Paul moved on, happy to see that the targets were buying into this new innovation.
Paul moved on to the front of the room, where he took the stage for the third time that evening. Standing next to Evers onstage, he shook the radio personality's hand and thanked him for all his help. The talk show host had fallen harder for their con than anyone, and was more than happy to have the extra exposure appearing at the event gave him. His speech finished, he thanked Paul and made his way back to his table where his wife was waiting for him with a fresh drink.
Paul wiped the sweat from Evers' hands on his pants and then tapped on the microphone. "Um, hello again, everyone," said Paul. He tried to pitch his voice higher than normal, with the nasal tone Chloe had described as bureaucratic officiousness. The idea was to sound like someone no one wants to talk to. That way, they'll pay less attention to details about you because they'll be looking away in embarrassment or distaste. It seemed to be working, as only about a third of the guests bothered to turn towards him. "I just wanted to remind everyone that there's only an hour left before the silent auctions close. We've got some really coo...really wonderful packages for you to bid on, and I encourage everyone to check again on items they've already bid on because it's getting fierce out there." He let out a nervous laugh. A few people chuckled out of pure politeness.
"Also, Congressman Felson is on his way and should be taking the stage. So let's be sure to give him a warm, patriotic welcome when he arrives, ok?" Paul started clapping and the crowd showed some cursory enthusiasm by clapping along with him before returning to their drinks and bids. Paul was no Sam Evers, for which he was grateful.
As Paul turned off the microphone he looked out and saw what must've now been over two hundred people.
The place was packed to capacity. If every fake item they'd put out there got just the minimum bid, they'd make $296,000, but from the looks of things, it was going to be much higher than that. Maybe two or three times that much.
He stepped off the stage and picked his way through the crowd, headed back towards the kitchen and its relative safety. The brief anxiety of being on stage had passed now and exhilaration came flooding in to replace it. He looked around the room and thought about the simple fact that everyone in the room was there because he had engineered it. He'd spun the greatest tale of his career as a storyteller, and these people were paying thousands of dollars to participate in it. It was like seeing his first comic book in print, only a hundred times more gratifying. They were all playing the rolls he'd written, and playing them perfectly.
Someone grabbed him by the back of his arm and said, "Paul, is that you?"
Startled at the sound of own name, he yanked his arm away and spun around to see a very familiar and very unwelcome face. It was Frank - lead programmer for his former company and one of the four people in the world who probably hated Paul more than everyone else he'd ever pissed off combined.
"Fuck," said Paul.
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"Whatcha doing Paul?" Frank asked.
Paul didn't have an answer.
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CHAPTER 27
Paul and Frank had had a complicated working relationship. In any other setting the two would not have been friendly. Actually, Paul had trouble imagining any other setting where their paths might have crossed. Frank lived for three things - writing great code, listening to really loud music, and racing sailboats. Paul didn't like any of those things.
Frank was, without a doubt, a very, very smart man and an excellent programmer. He had both the eye for detail and the imagination needed to make him a real software innovator. At the same time, Frank's world view was all practical and all about getting the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible, which kept him from getting mired down in minutiae. Paul on the other hand had been the official dreamer of big dreams at the company, and the two of them often came into conflict whenever his pie in the sky dreams collided with Frank's pragmatism. Both men had a habit of slowly but surely raising their voices during a discussion, and design meetings often resulted in them yelling at each other, although neither of them were really all that mad.
Up until the day Frank had proposed firing him, Paul had always thought they had a kind of mutual respect.
As it turned out, while Paul respected Frank's abilities, the lead programmer had always viewed him as a flighty, unprofessional slacker. Once he had the other partners on board, he'd jumped at the chance he'd been waiting for to show Paul the door.
And now, here they were again, facing one another and Paul rea
lized that he had forgotten one thing about Frank. The fourth thing about Frank, besides the code, the music, and the sailboats. Frank was a Republican.
"Fuck," said Paul once more, because he honestly didn't know what else to say. He was flashing back to the boardroom. To how angry Frank had been. Fuck, he thought, what was he going to do?
"Nice moustache," said Frank. "You buy that yourself?"
Paul just stared as he backed up a step towards the kitchen door.
"What's going on, man?" Frank persisted, his mouth twisted into his trademark smirk that managed to convey massive disdain with just the slightest twitch of the upper lip. "Don't you have anything to say to your old business partner?"
In fact, Paul didn't have anything to say. Somewhere in his mind he thought that maybe he could still play this off as a case of mistaken identity. Somehow convince Frank that he wasn't Paul at all. But the sheer ridiculousness of this idea kept him silent, prevented him from forming any kind of speech. His back pressed up against the kitchen door and he flinched in surprise.
"I always thought you were a liberal, Paul," said Frank. "I remember all those talks about worker's rights for our employees and what things we can and can't say in the office without offending women or gays. That doesn't sound like the kind of guy who'd be in charge of something like this." He waved a casual arm towards the room behind them. "What gives?"
Frozen. Mind blank except for visions of everything going down in flames. He retreated through the door.
Frank, always one to press the advantage in an argument, followed him right in without thinking about it twice.
"What's up, Paul?" said Raff, who was looking down at the PDA in his hand, monitoring the bids. "That was great. I think..." and then he stopped and looked up as Frank walked into the kitchen. "Who's this?"
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Chloe, who had been overseeing the Crew members working as caterers whipped around at the sudden change in Raff's tone. As Paul shrank back towards Raff for support, he opened up a clear line of sight between Frank and Chloe, who locked eyes. Frank's gaze narrowed and recognition dawned immediately. Even with a different wig and glasses on, it he recognized her.
"Well this is some party," said Frank. "You even brought your lawyer."
Raff stepped forward and extended his hand towards Frank with a friendly smile. "Hi there. Randy Mitchell, Coalition for the American Family. Nice to meet you. Are you enjoying the party?" Paul hoped that Frank wouldn't notice that he was dressed like a caterer.
"Sure, sure," said Frank as he smiled in return, his eyes full of mischief. "Me and Paul here go way back. Way back."
"That's great," said Raff. "We're certainly glad you could make it tonight."
"When I got the invitation in the mail I didn't think I was going to come. This sort of thing isn't really all that interesting to me, but now I'm very glad I did."
"Well, again, thanks for coming down," said Raff. In the background Chloe was moving up towards the front where the three men stood talking. Paul, feeling slightly more confident with his friends at his side, was actually coming close to the point where he could speak again. Raff continued to try and sweet talk Frank.
"Now, we've got a bunch of details we need to sort out right this moment, so if you could just give us ten minutes then I'm sure you and your old friend here can catch up later."
Ignoring Raff, Frank turned to Chloe. "I know all about you now."
"Excuse me?" said Chloe. "Have we met?"
"You're no more a lawyer than Paul here is a conservative fund raiser."
"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," said Chloe. "You're right, I'm not a lawyer, but I've never said I was."
"Gretchen is from the Republican National Committee," said Raff. "She flew in from Washington to help organize this event. Now please, if you'll..."
"The hair's different. The glasses," said Frank. "But it's you. I won't be forgetting you any time soon." He nodded towards Paul. "How could I forget either of you?"
Raff turned his gaze on Chloe and Paul and feigned confusion. "Gretchen, Paul, what is this gentleman talking about?"
"I have no idea," said Chloe. "I've never seen him before." She put a hand on Paul's shoulder to steady him.
"You don't know him, do you Paul?"
"Yes, I..." Paul took a deep breath. "Yes."
"Of course he knows me," said Frank. "We worked together night and day for years. Well, day anyway. Paul wasn't around much at night." He laughed and then pointed an accusing finger directly at Chloe. "And you're the bitch of a lawyer. I'm sorry, fake lawyer, who helped him out the day we fired him."
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"I've told you before..." Chloe started to say.
"You think I'm that stupid? You think I don't recognize you because you've got a different wig on? Jesus Christ, lady, who else could you be, standing next to him like that."
Chloe, instead of getting mad, took a bemused air. "Listen sir, I don't know what your problem is, but it's got nothing to do with me."
Before Frank could reply, Raff stepped between him and Chloe and snaked a hand up onto Frank's shoulder.
A good six inches taller than Frank, Raff was looking straight down at the programmer from less than a foot away. He lowered his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Sir, I appreciate that you've got some issues to resolve with Paul here, and I'd be more than happy to let you sort them out later. But right now we've got a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it. This is an important event for us and, since you came out here tonight to support it, I assume it's important to you as well. I promise you, you can speak with Paul and Gretchen in just a little while, but please give us some space to finish our work, Ok?"
Frank looked up at Raff for a long moment, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Finally he shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and took a step backward. "Ok, ok, I'll leave you guys to it. You've got to get things ready for the congressman, right?"
"Exactly," said Raff. "And afterwards we can all get together and get to the bottom of this."
"Fine," said Frank. "Heck, maybe that's even better. Maybe the Congressman himself would be interested to know the kind of criminals and con women he's got fundraising for him. I'm sure Sam Evers will have a lot of fun with it on the radio when he finds out." He turned and started back towards the dining room.
"Wait," said Chloe. "Come here."
Startled, Frank turned around and looked at Chloe.
"Let's settle this right now," said Chloe. "Come here."
"Why?" asked Frank, his voice less confrontational than before in the face of Chloe's commanding tone.
"So we can settle this nonsense right now. Come. Here."
Frank took a few tentative steps towards Chloe. Not knowing what to expect next, Paul backed well out of the way. He noticed Chloe's eyes dart towards Raff, who was now behind Frank. He made the slightest nod of acknowledgement.
"What?" asked Frank, "Are you going to take off your wig for me or something?"
"I'm going to settle this," Chloe was reaching into the small purse she had slung over one shoulder. "I'm going to show you my driver's license."
"Ok, let's see it." Frank was now less than three feet from Chloe, whose attention was still squarely focused on digging through her purse for something.
"Here." She said as she started to pull something out of her bag. Then her eyes flicked up to Raff and she shouted, "Now!"
Raff grabbed Frank from behind, one long arm wrapping around the unsuspecting programmer's torso, the CHAPTER 27
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other clamping down over his mouth. Chloe's hand whipped out of the bag with her stun gun. It crackled with electricity as she thumbed the power on and jabbed it into Frank's chest.
Frank convulsed and strained and then fell to the floor, twitching and stunned, but not unconscious.
Chloe and Raff both immediately knelt beside Frank and started securing him. Raff w
hipped off Frank's belt and used it to bind his hands. Chloe took a kitchen rag and stuffed it in his mouth. "Come on," she hissed to the Crew members still dressed as waiters. "Help us move him quick, before someone from outside comes in."
Paul watched as they secured Frank in a pantry. He was agog. His mind raced, trying to conceive of some scenario where this could possibly turn out well. He leaned against a countertop, breathing hard.
Popper came through the kitchen door. "The congressman's here," she said and then looked at Paul. "Fuck, are you ok? You're pale as a sheet."
"I'm ok," gasped Paul. "Just need a sec here."
"You need to get out there and introduce him," she said. "Like, right now."
"I'll do it," said a voice from behind him. It was Chloe.
"No, I'll be fine," protested Paul.
"Not right now you won't be," she said, walking right past him and out the door. "I'll do it."
Paul stood there and watched her go. Thirty seconds later he heard her give the speech he had written for himself, welcoming Congressman Felson and praising him for his ultra-conservative track record. He was still breathing too hard and too fast. The crowd cheered as Felson took the stage.
Raff leaned on the counter beside him and handed him a glass of water. "Here, have a drink."
Paul sipped at the water. "Thanks." They both sat there in silence for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the Congressman's speech. He had opened up with an attack on those responsible for the prank in the park, just as they'd hoped. "Is he ok?"
"Your friend? He'll be fine. The cleaning staff will find him tied up and gagged in the closet once we're gone."
"Are we totally fucked?" asked Paul.
"Depends. Did you see if he came in with anyone? Is someone waiting for him?"
