“Well, um, we figured it was heavy, so why move it twice?”
“Of course. All the eggs in one basket. Makes perfect sense.”
“We’ve also lost two generators, floodlights, and a mile of cabling,” Deeths said. “The thieves probably took them for the copper.”
“But you weren’t working night shifts,” Callie observed.
“Well, the schedule called for that to start next month.”
“So someone knew just when to hit us,” Praxis said.
“That’s about the size of it,” Chapple agreed.
“It’s all insured, isn’t it?” Deeths said.
“Of course,” John replied. “We’ll get the equipment replaced, but that’s not the point. Our premiums will go through the roof—not to mention rental rates and liability on anything we lease from now on.”
“And whoever did this will be watching for another chance,” Callie said.
Her father was looking at the ground, thinking. He suddenly pointed about forty feet away. “What’s that?”
Callie saw a glint of something gold. As she walked toward it, the glint resolved into a bright oval. It was a shield engraved with “Nocturna Security” and a badge number. She took it back to the men.
“Torn off in a fight?” Chapple suggested.
She turned the badge over. The pin was intact with no torn cloth under it.
“It was left as a message,” Praxis told them.
“You just can’t trust anybody these days.”
* * *
Mariene Kunstler pressed the elevator button a second time, then a third, thinking the signal must not have gone through, although the white plastic disk with its upward-pointing arrow was still glowing. Nothing happened—no rattle of doors on the floors above, no hum of motors in the shaft. She shook her head and walked across the marble floor of the lobby to the flight of stairs decorated with metal vines in badly flaking gold leaf.
This was what Matteo di Rienzi was investing in? This was the powerhouse construction firm that was going to rebuild California? And they couldn’t even maintain an elevator?
“Don’t be fooled by the people you will meet,” he had told her over the phone before she flew out of Zurich. “The family was great once, and they survived the war.” He paused. “The Contessa survived my nephew Cesco. That should tell you something.”
Arriving at the third floor, Mariene found a long corridor stretching away, paved with tiny white hexagonal tiles, paneled in darkly varnished wood, and offering three widely spaced doors, each with a pebbled glass window and brass knob. But only one of them had a brass name plate beside it, “Praxis Engineering & Construction LLC,” and lettering on the glass said, “Enter Here.”
She didn’t bother knocking—that wasn’t her style. She turned the knob and walked in. The wider hallway beyond the door was carpeted with blocks of indoor-outdoor fiber in a color the old Bundeswehr had called Feldgrau. The reception desk positioned sideways in the entry was unattended, with not even a telecomm bot.
“Hallo?” she called.
A dark-haired woman—tall, good figure, well-tailored business suit—put her head out from one of the doorways leading off to the side. She had a headphone boom slung from her ear. She tucked it down, away from her mouth. “Are you from Hotto-Potto?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Mariene was confused.
“The sukiyaki place on the corner?”
Ah, now she understood. It was a reaction Mariene Kunstler had met many times, especially when she wore her loose-fitting travel clothes. In the land of American giants, she stood just five feet tall, had a silhouette easily mistaken for a boy’s, and wore her white-blonde hair cropped short all around. Her features were small and her face pale—except for black-black eyes and a slight fold to her eyelids that her father had attributed to a great-grandmother who might have been Chinese. In certain lights—and until she put on her stiletto heels, miniskirt, and a scarf or makeup to conceal the Black Widow tattooed on the side of her neck—she would pass for the punked-out delivery boy from an Asian fast-food restaurant. It was a useful trick, sometimes.
“No,” she replied. “Are you the one they call the Contessa?”
The woman blinked, then nodded. “I am Callista di Rienzi.”
“We need to talk. Your uncle Matteo sent me.”
The news did not surprise this woman. “I see. Come in, please.” She took Mariene into her office and closed the door behind them. “When did you arrive?”
“Two hours ago—from Switzerland.”
“Do you want coffee, or anything?”
“Let us assume my social needs are taken care of.” Mariene took a chair and waved for di Rienzi to sit behind her desk. “We should get right to the point. I want a position in this firm that will give me a high degree of authority but also latitude as to hours and movements. Matteo wishes me to keep an eye on his investments here and increase them wherever possible. He specified the opportunity to travel and meet important people. So that would exclude some make-work job like personnel or accounting.”
“I see.” Di Rienzi frowned. “Do you have a degree in engineering or anything technical?”
“Of course not. I studied German medieval and renaissance poetry at the University of Hannover in Lower Saxony, then transferred to the faculty for political science and economics. I took training with and served three years in the Bavarian State Polizei, four years in the Italian Carabinieri, and two months at the European Union’s Department of Justice and Equality.”
“I take it you didn’t like Brussels?”
“No, Brussels didn’t like me.”
“So you’re a police officer.”
“Not exactly. I … blend.”
“Come again, please?”
“I can make my way into and out of strange and difficult situations. I can gather information, retain and process it up here.” She tapped her forehead. “I can read people and know what they’re thinking. I can disappear into the background when necessary. I blend.”
“That’s, um, a useful set of skills. Anything more … concrete?”
“For reasons that won’t concern you, I am loyal to Matteo.”
“We’re really too small right now for anyone logging non-billable hours.”
“That’s your problem. You can assume my salary and expenses will be paid out of Matteo’s interest. What I need is a base of operations, high-level connections, and a set of business cards.”
Di Rienzi squinted at her. “This part of the country is still somewhat in transition. We’ve had a rash of industrial thefts recently, really quite damaging to our job progress. Someone with police investigative—”
“I don’t think you understand. When Matteo speaks of protecting his investments, he’s not talking about chasing thieves and vandals. Your insurance people can do that. He is concerned with the other end of the business, the money end—where the clients are.”
Di Rienzi thought for a moment. “We don’t have anyone in charge of marketing yet. How does executive vice president sound?”
“That would be perfect. Does it come with a car?”
“Don’t you wish! Right after I get one.”
* * *
In the weeks since Antigone Wells moved into the house on Balboa Street, the family had established a comfortable morning routine. Callie was usually the first one awake, rousted out Rafaella, and started getting her ready for school. Then John Praxis got up, left Antigone asleep in their bed, and went down to make coffee. And finally Antigone came slowly awake, sleepwalked into the bathroom, and locked the door for half an hour.
But this morning the routine seemed to have changed. Praxis roused early, aware that he was lying in a cold and empty bed. He listened for sounds from the hallway and heard only light snores coming from Callie’s and Rafaella’s bedroom. But he detected muted sounds of bustle and clatter from the kitchen. He stumbled down the stairs and found Antigone there in her bathrobe.
The refrigerator
door was wide open. A carton of milk and six brown eggs were warming out on the counter. A number of steel and ceramic bowls of different sizes stood next to them, and three of his graduated, cast-iron frying pans sat on top of the stove. Antigone herself was standing at the open flatware drawer, holding up and considering a spatula in her left hand, a whisk in her right. The coffee maker was still cold and empty.
“Good morning, m’dear,” he said, walking over and kissing her cheek.
“Oh, hello, John,” she replied absently, still studying her implements.
“What are you doing, Tig?” he finally asked.
“I got tired of eating breakfast burritos at the office. I’m making pancakes.”
“Oh … good.” Praxis looked around the room. Pancakes appeared to be some hours in the future. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I know how,” she replied. “Well … I’ve seen it done.”
“Pancakes sound wonderful. Rafaella loves them.”
“Where do you keep the flour?” she asked.
“Cabinet by the stove. But I think we ran out.”
Baking was not his strong suit—or Callie’s.
“And the yeast?” Antigone prompted.
“Do you put yeast in pancakes?” he asked.
“I’m sure there must be some.”
“Aren’t you following a recipe?”
“I couldn’t find your cookbook.”
“Well, try baking powder instead,” he suggested.
“That would probably work. … Do you have any?”
“I don’t think so.” He paused. “Do you mind if I make the coffee?”
“No, go ahead.” She put down the utensils, turned, and looked around the kitchen: empty bowls, cold skillets, and eggs and milk as the only available ingredients. Praxis could see the light of reason slowly dawn in her lovely gray eyes. She sighed. “I guess I could scramble some eggs.”
“That would be a lot of work,” he said.
“Um … I don’t suppose there’s cereal?”
“Try the cabinet above the refrigerator.”
“I’m sorry, John. Better luck next time.”
“It’s all right. We just need to stock up.”
* * *
“Brandon Praxis,” Callie said, trying to keep her voice level.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the mature man seated before her.
She tried to focus on his resume, which was skimpy enough, but her eyes kept drifting upward to his erect posture and lean, tanned face. In her mind’s eye, she saw the young nephew of eighteen or twenty years old, with his father’s softly rounded features and incipient paunch. That boy had habitually worn—and that included a few Christmas dinners and family birthday parties—a cardinal-red sweatshirt blazoned with the word “Stanford” and khaki cargo pants draped two inches below his hips. The boy of twenty had never called her “ma’am” in his life.
This man of thirty-one or so was no fashion plate now. His suit was clearly bought off the rack, with sleeves that ended an inch above his bony wrists and the trouser cuffs up around his ankle bones. His shirt was oxford cloth, and its collar points and tabs were three years out of style. His tie blended colors that belonged on a candy wrapper. From the resume in front of her, Callie guessed he was used to having the military pick out his uniforms—and that most of them had been battle fatigues in a cement-and-brick-dust camouflage pattern.
“Why do you come to us, Brandon?”
“Well, ma’am, you can see I just—”
“You used to call me ‘Aunt Callie.’ ”
“Okay, Aunt Callie.” He smiled. “I just got demobed from the army. I’m looking for an opportunity to use my talents and experience productively, and … well … here …” He broke off and hesitated.
That sentence was going to end badly, she knew, whatever he said next. Brandon Praxis might have many talents and much experience, but the only reason he would bring them to PE&C was the family connection. Clearly, he had heard that the engineering business was starting up again. Obviously, he hoped the place that once would have been made for him as eldest son of the president and chief operating officer was still available—ten years and a lifetime later. Maybe in another dozen years, when the family business was back on top of the heap. But right now they had no room for useless mouths—or more useless mouths, after the woman Uncle Matteo had recently forced on them.
She flexed the single-page resume. “I see a lot of military courses and training exercises listed under ‘education,’ but no academic degree. You were studying for a BS in—what? Civil engineering, wasn’t it? But you enlisted first.”
“Actually, inducted at start of the war. Nothing voluntary about it.”
“You were in your senior year. How many credits shy of a degree?”
“Fifteen. And I’d done the course work. It was a week until exams.”
“We could use an engineer—although at this point we need experienced people,” she said. “Could you go back to campus, take a makeup or something, and get—”
“After this long …” He sighed. “Most of my credits have lapsed, and with all the technical developments since then, I’d be looking at about two years worth of work. I’ve already checked.”
“And I suppose you’d have to eat in the meantime.”
He smiled again. “That would be the preferred option.”
Callie chewed her lower lip. Much as it pained her, she didn’t have anything for Leonard’s boy. Unless … “I suppose you know all about running a military operation,” she said. “Motivating people, making them work as a team, moving toward a goal.”
“Sure, it’s what an officer does. I could see myself in project management—”
She dismissed the idea. “That would need still more course work. Plus logistics and cost accounting. But you do know about weapons, tactics, use of force?”
“That’s all I’ve done for the past nine years.”
“And have you ever mounted guard duty?”
“Do you mean ‘walked the perimeter’?”
“Well, have you set up under hostile conditions?”
“Inside enemy territory, ma’am. Every night.”
“Brandon,” she said, “you might think the war is over. But unsettled as things are, given the collapse and confusion, and general lawlessness, plus human nature, our construction sites sometimes resemble a war zone. And it goes on every night.”
His eyes brightened. “And you need someone to set up a countering force?”
“Someone I can trust implicitly,” she agreed. “Family would count.”
“I’d have to see what weapons are allowed, then get licensing.”
“Given our losses to date, you’d have a sizeable budget.”
“So when do you want me to start, Aunt Callie?”
“There’s a desk down the hall. Take off that tie.”
* * *
As Richard Praxis entered the lobby off Sansome Street, with its musty smells of faded varnish, old plaster, and lemon-scented cleaning products, he realized he was entering a San Francisco preserved from the middle of the last century. It was a place of modest elegance with even more modest expectations. It reflected a San Francisco far from the power centers of New York and Chicago, when California was still provincial, at the long end of rail lines and steamship connections, but trying to project a solid appearance of business on the small scale. As he rode up in the elevator’s brass cage with its discreet spots of tarnish, a sense of claustrophobia oppressed him. Once the city had risen by its own will power from the devastation of earthquake and fire. Now it was trying to rise from the devastation of war and economic collapse.
As he stepped out on the third floor, with its dark paneling and shadows, he remembered the steel and glass tower down on the Embarcadero with its views of the Bay and Treasure Island. Father, how you’ve come down in the world!
Richard had no sense that he was entering enemy territory until he opened the quaint, half-glassed door to
the Praxis Engineering office suite and found his sister Callie inside, as if she had been waiting for him all along. And then, after nine years of isolation due to rebellion and war, she gave him a look that resembled the way Texans dealt with lizards, scorpions, damn Yankees, and folks who turned up their noses at barbecue.
“Hello, Callie.”
“Richard.”
She led him down a long hallway and into a conference room. There the brass-and-varnish quaintness of last-century California disappeared into a modern workspace with diffuse lighting, a dark-glass reactive tabletop, sprung chairs, and inset video panels on three of the four walls. It was a data-rich environment familiar to anyone who worked in Houston’s Carbon Fiber Crescent, such as a vice president from Tallyman Systems, Inc.
Callie settled into one of the chairs, touched a spot on the table, and spoke to the wall. “John? He’s here. We’re ready.”
“On my way,” the wall told her.
“Um,” Richard said. “Could I have a cup of coffee?”
His sister looked as if he’d spoken in Urdu. Then she pointed to a tiny countertop in the corner behind the door. It had a steam press and a basket of colorful flavor capsules. “Leave a dollar in the dish, please.”
While Richard was brewing his coffee and digging in his pocket for change, his father came into the room. The man looked around and found him behind the door.
“Dad!” Richard exclaimed and then, God help him, he rushed forward and embraced his father. The body was thinner than he remembered but not yet frail, the hair no longer silver but the white of sun-bleached stone, the face just starting to go slack with the soft wrinkles of well-tanned deer hide.
John pushed him away gently. He looked deep into Richard’s eyes, but he was smiling. “It’s been too long.”
“You know it,” Richard replied.
“You’re not here for a job, are you?” his father asked.
“No. I’m—well, as I explained in my text, I have an opportunity for you.”
“Richard’s going to make us wealthy using his computer skills,” Callie sneered.
“It’s not me,” Richard said, closing the door and moving back to the table, where they all took seats. “The company I represent, Tallyman Systems, has a unique way of running data evaluations—stochastic evolution—here, let me show you.” He took out his two-penny data nail, slotted it into the tabletop, and started into the presentation in which Tallyman’s marketing people had coached him.
Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life Page 27
