by Jim Stark
"No sir,” said Victor, without blinking. “This is for dead real."
"You ... claim to know when people are lying,” repeated Whiteside.
"Bang on every time ... one hundred percent accurate,” confirmed Victor.
Whiteside sat down in a leather chair opposite, sucked in his lips, hooked his fingers together, and drummed his thumbs, one against the other. His forehead seemed to fold and unfold like living Venetian blinds, and his Brezhnev eyebrows performed a dance of doubt.
"And how, may I ask, do you manage that?” he inquired.
Victor rose from the arm of the chair and sat down properly, if only to put himself on the same level as his perplexed host. In his preparation for this encounter, he had mentally scripted a dozen different scenarios. In the end, he decided that he had to avoid answering the question of “how” until a contract was signed. He leaned forward and said, “Try me."
"Try you?” repeated Whiteside, with a disbelieving head-waggle.
"Tell me anything,” invited Victor calmly. “Anything at all. I'll tell you whether it's true or false."
Whiteside studied the strangely confident man. He sensed pride, but not the false pride that he knew as the trademark of the small time rip-off artist. The thing that surprised him most was that he didn't smell the fear that Cam O'Connor had sensed. Whiteside had wasted a lot of his youth playing poker, and he hadn't let the habit lapse because he lost money—only because he lost the joy of winning small amounts from people who hated to lose, or couldn't afford to lose. If this was a poker face he was looking at, it was one of the best he'd ever seen. If he wanted to know more, it seemed clear he'd have to take up the challenge, call the man's bluff.
"My wife's maiden name is Bracken,” he said.
"No sir, it's not,” said Victor, “but I happen to know it's Dawe—from an article I read about you a couple of years back. Bracken was your mother's maiden name."
"Okay,” said Whiteside as he shifted his considerable weight to the other cheek. “My maternal grandmother's middle name was Faith."
"So it was."
"My wife broke her—uh—big toe on our honeymoon."
"Yes, she did.” Victor smiled inwardly at the way Whiteside had tried to throw him off by hesitating just before he said “big toe."
"I had salmon for dinner tonight."
"No, you didn't."
"The stock market will be going up tomorrow."
"Nice try,” chuckled Victor. “I wish it worked like that, but if it did, I wouldn't need you, would I?"
Rhetorical questions weren't Whiteside's favorite thing, but the banged-up taxi driver had a point. “My tennis partner cancelled our game for Saturday,” he tried.
"Yes, he did."
"I have to have an operation on my leg."
Victor paused for this one. He knew he had it, but he also realized that this would be the turning point, the response that Mr. Whiteside would remember best and talk about for years to come. “You have to have an operation,” he said deliberately, “but ... it's not your leg that's bothering you."
Whiteside was both amazed and concerned. His medical condition wasn't serious—he needed a polyp removed from his colon—but still, it was a closely guarded secret, so that rumors wouldn't affect stock prices. He leaned forward, locked his hands in an isometric stalemate, and gave Victor a taste of his famous “eyes-of-fire” treatment. Time for a curve.
"The Earth's temperature is rising because of pollutants in the atmosphere,” he said.
The game was on, and the president of Whiteside Tech was a player's player, but Victor didn't need an oversized racquet to lob that one back. “I can confirm that you believe that,” he said, “but as you know, not all scientists agree with the global warming theory. My—uh—ability doesn't help at all when it comes to opinions."
Whiteside was a scarred veteran of the marketplace, and he had no experience with “The Twilight Zone” except as a quaint novelty from last century, from the very early days of television. Even if this guy's ability is limited to matters of fact, he thought, it's still uncanny. He looked deep into Victor's eyes, and although he didn't detect the dark undercurrents of a con job, he felt unsettled by the way this modern-day peasant was perceiving what no man should be able to know. He didn't want to believe what he was hearing, but it seemed that he had little choice. Still, the one-minute time limit he had established wasn't carved in anything more solid than his son's frustration, so he decided that the test should continue.
"I'm fifty-three years old,” he said.
"The article about you in the Ottawa Citizen was a couple of years ago,” said Victor. “It said you were fifty-three back then, so..."
"And if it was printed in the Citizen, it must be true?” suggested Whiteside.
Victor caught the mild dig at the local rag. “Yes sir,” he answered sarcastically.
Whiteside was pleased to see that the cabbie could give as good as he got. “If you can't laugh, you can't work here,” he had always told his employees at the annual picnic. But this wasn't a time for playful barbs. He had expected this test to last ten seconds, tops, and he had yet to trip the man up.
"So ... how do you manage to do this ... thing?” he asked again, trying to put the game aside.
"True,” said Victor, with a straight face.
Whiteside chuckled. “You can't blame me for trying,” he said.
"False,” judged Victor, with only the narrowest hint that he was teasing.
"Okay,” laughed Whiteside, “let's get back on track. My personal limo is a Lincoln—white outside, gray inside."
"It's white outside, but it's not gray inside,” corrected Victor.
"Is it blue inside?"
"You tell me."
"It ... is blue inside,” said Whiteside.
"True."
"My golf handicap is thirteen."
"False."
"Ten."
"False."
"Twelve."
"True—not bad."
"Capitalism is morally correct."
"Opinion."
"I believe in capitalism."
"That's true."
"My father died on my eleventh birthday."
"True."
"My Aunt Elsa died of cancer."
"False."
"My Aunt Elsa is still alive."
"False."
"I failed chemistry in my first year of university."
"True."
"I think you're a phony."
"False, I'm pleased to say,” Victor shot back without the slightest hesitation and with evident pleasure.
Whiteside folded, and stood. “Well,” he admitted, “I believe you, and you seem to know it. So, where do we go from here? What do you want from me?"
This was a part of the script that Victor could never quite nail down. The truth was, what he wanted out of all this, personally, was beyond discussion at this point. He had thought about that for more than a dozen years, and often confused the hell out of himself trying to figure it out. He'd spoken aloud to himself in his cab, made tapes, dreamt about it and mulled it over in the concealed lab he'd built in the basement of his farmhouse. He could cough up a six-hour response to Whiteside's question, but at the end of the day, when philosophy, psychology, and sociology were set aside, he had to face a fact that he didn't quite like. “Hermits never learn to bargain in life,” he had often said out loud to himself. “Or with it,” he would usually add.
"As you may imagine,” he began cautiously, “what I want is money. Millions, eventually. But what I need right now is protection—the services of your security outfit, Patriot."
"Protection?” said Whiteside as he reclaimed his seat.
"Yeah, starting now,” said Victor seriously. “My skill at detecting lies is a valuable commodity, as I'm sure you realize. I'm not concerned that someone could steal it. It's just that a lot of people will be afraid of me, and it's my judgment that some of these people might do almost anything to make sure t
his ... shall we say this ‘ability’ of mine ... never surfaces. My life may be in danger even now, and I need to feel safe—be safe."
He stopped to reflect on his assessment, resentfully. The line between paranoia and prudence was difficult to define, and tricky to talk about without feeling sissified. No, he said to himself, it isn't all in my mind. The painful lessons of life were the most difficult ones to forget, and he knew too much about the sickness that was out there, the pandemic of greed and the mania for power that infected humanity, or much of it. There had been times when he'd wondered whether he should have stuck to a decision he had made six years ago, during a bout with depression, to keep his cakehole zipped up and let his secret die with him. This was one of those times, presumably the last.
"I'm here primarily to propose a business deal,” he said deliberately, “but I'd also like to put my talent to some good use, for the world. I know enough about your business and your character, and I've read about the work of your charity, the Destiny Foundation. Basically, I need someone like you to back me up—to make sure I don't get whacked, for starters—but more importantly, I need you to help me find a way, the best way, to share my special ability with others."
Whiteside felt his heart hiccup. “Are you saying that ... that anybody can learn to do what you do?” he asked.
"Piece o’ cake,” said Victor, with a shrug. “That's one reason why it's worth a lot of money."
Whiteside wondered again whether he might be jousting with the most gifted con artist that ever plied the trade. If he's telling the truth, if anyone can acquire his talent, then he can't be a psychic, he said to himself. But if others did acquire this skill ... good Lord! Spies would be out of work, the powerful could fall like flies, religion might be kaput, corporations would crumble, governments could be toppled, and a whole lot of marriages could end up in the toilet. On the other hand, innocent people would never go to jail and the guilty would always ... almost always ... be caught and convicted. His mind was swimming. This was too much to swallow in one gulp.
"Mr. Helliwell,” he said intently, “how long would it take ... me, for instance ... to learn this skill?"
"About a minute,” said Victor.
"One minute?"
"Less, actually."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not kidding, and I happen to know that you don't even believe that I'm kidding,” said Victor.
Randall Whiteside found this exchange as aggravating as it was fascinating. He wasn't at all sure he liked dealing with a person who could literally read his mind, or at least access his beliefs. But it also occurred to him that he wasted a lot of precious time in his life sweating to decipher the true intentions and veracity of other people, not only in his business dealings, but generally, just as he was doing at this very moment.
"And ... we would charge people to acquire this skill from us?” he asked.
"Essentially, yes."
"And ... say we teach some guy how to do it, what's to stop him from just teaching others and cutting us out?"
"You'll have to trust me on that one,” said Victor. “It won't be a problem."
Whiteside had been leaning forward, but now he settled back in his chair, and in his mind. “You want me to trust you and go into business with you, but you won't even tell me how this skill works?” he asked accusingly.
"I'm afraid that's the way it has to be for now,” said Victor. “But it's not a problem. Have your lawyers draw up a contract. You sign it, then I'll sign it, and then I'll tell you everything. We could wrap it all up by tomorrow evening, I'm sure."
"You think things can move that fast?” cracked Whiteside. “With lawyers involved!?"
"You have more than one lawyer,” said Victor. “Put two of them on it tonight. Instruct one of them to represent your interests, the other to represent mine, and tell them to negotiate a fair arrangement. I'd like a signing bonus, royalties, and a share of profits. You put the contract in front of me tomorrow, and I'll simply ask you if it's fair. You'll obviously say ‘yes,’ and I'll know if you told the truth. And assuming you tell the truth, I'll even promise to sign the thing without reading it."
Whiteside was dumbfounded. This guy had it all figured out. With his ability to discern the truth, trust was almost obsolete, unnecessary. “And ... if I do as you ask, Mr. Helliwell, I could have this skill mastered ... for myself ... by..."
"Like I said, less than a minute after we sign the contract."
Whiteside felt dizzy, and took a deep breath before he continued. “And—uh—how many people do you think would want to acquire this skill?"
"About five percent of the world's population, maybe a little more,” said Victor. “At five percent, that would be about 300 million people, and that's just in the first three years of operation. Eventually, no one would even dream of going through life without this ability, and of course no one will ever dare to lie—about anything!"
Whiteside closed his eyes and went back to drumming his thumbs together on his lap. It was difficult to know for sure that he shouldn't be laughing ... or seeking psychiatric help. Work it out as if it were real, he recalled his father advising. His instincts rebelled, but his internal calculator told him that five percent in the short-term was probably realistic—depending on the price, of course. “And ... how much would we charge for this ... service?” he asked, opening his eyes again.
"About $500 a person,” said Victor. “We should set up for a $100 profit per customer. If I realize this objective—I should say if we realize this objective—that translates into a pre-tax profit of $30 billion over a three-year period, although I think my estimates are conservative.” He paused briefly to consider whether he should go any further, and decided he should. “But you know, Mr. Whiteside, although you and I stand to make a great deal of money out of this, in the end, that may be the least of our accomplishments."
Whiteside studied Victor's face for clues and, finding none, he rose very slowly and walked over to the window, his hands now linked behind his back. Life was full of surprises, but he had just spent the last minute of his life talking about $10-billion-a-year profits ... with a cab driver. What's wrong with this picture? he asked himself. He turned, sat on the ledge, and tried again to size up this eccentric man.
"If you're so all-fired concerned about the welfare of the planet,” he asked sternly, “then what's all this stuff about wanting bags of money?"
"You know, sir,” Victor said, “I've discovered a lot about myself since I perfected this ... thing. Some of my insights are wonderful, but others are disquieting. For instance, I've learned that I'm really quite a selfish person. I've never had any real money, and now I have to admit that I want some ... lots, actually. Maybe some day I'll be as generous with my wealth as you are with yours."
Whiteside pushed himself off the ledge, wandered over to an oil painting of one of the founders of the Royal Oaks and stared at the prickly face of his rum-running scoundrel of a great-grandfather. With his back still turned, he asked: “How did my friend Senator Cadbury run into you?"
"I'd heard him on the radio, seen him on TV,” explained Victor. “He always speaks the truth. He's one of the most—"
Whiteside wheeled around. “You can do this trick off the TV?"
"No problem,” said Victor plainly.
"You're putting me ... you've just got to be putting me on! You're ... you're..."
Randall Whiteside almost never lost control. His family life was disaster-free, comfortable, normal. His financial affairs were the envy of everyone. His high status in the business world was secure, respected, global. He'd made his peace with God while still in his teens, by dismissing Him, and he regarded angst as an affectation reserved for mental patients and existentialists. Now he had to cope with an overweight taxi driver who could take the measure a man's character off the damned TV. He felt his face flush, and his voice took on a shrill, panicky edge.
"You—uh—you really can tell, can't you?"
"I k
now it's hard to imagine, but yes, I can,” said Victor. “So, as I was saying, I knew that you were good friends with Senator Cadbury, and he's perhaps the most honorable man I've ever analyzed. I paid a lobbyist $1,800 to get me a ten-minute appointment with him on short notice ... all the cash I had, actually. I went to his office this afternoon at five o'clock, told him my story, showed off a bit—you know, like I did for you—and he kept me there for over an hour. I told him I had to meet you right away, but my problem was that you were inaccessible to the likes of me, so he told his—"
"I'm inaccessible?” sniffed Whiteside.
"What I mean,” explained Victor, “is that I'd have to tell a dozen underlings what it was all about before I'd get to talk to you, and that wouldn't have been a smart thing to do ... for security reasons. In any event, Mr. Cadbury made a call and found out where you were and told his chauffeur to bring me over here to talk to you. Here's his card. He didn't want to talk about me over the phone, so he asked me to tell you that he'd like to hear back from you this evening, if that's possible. He's really anxious to know what you think of me."
Whiteside had heard enough. “Okay,” he said, “here's the deal. When you or I share information about this with others, we do so strictly on a need-to-know basis, and we keep each other fully informed. I'll get the senator to do likewise. The only people that I'll involve on any other basis will be Cam O'Connor, and my wife, Doreen—I never hide anything from her—and..."
He saw Victor's eyebrows jump up a notch, and stopped himself.
"Jesus Christ that's disconcerting,” he complained. “Let me rephrase that: I rarely hide anything from her."
"You're only human,” said Victor reassuringly. “It's a big adjustment, I know, but I think—"
"And I'll tell my son, Michael,” continued Whiteside. “I want him in on this. It's time he cut his teeth on a business venture, and he'll be out of school soon, for a few months. You don't have any objections to that, I trust?"
"Not at all,” said Victor, as he stood up. “Not as long as he can keep a secret and—"
