The Big Get-Even

by Paul Di Filippo

  “I said, ‘How you doing?’ in Caboverde. Remember, dude? I’m supposed to be teaching you guys kriolu. But I only know Santiago style.”

  “A country that small has dialects?”

  “You bet! We got Barlavento, Sal, Boa Vista—so many! But Santiago is the best!”

  “Okay. So how do I answer?”

  “You say, ‘Muitu ben.’ That means you’re doing good.”

  “And what if I’m going crazy?”

  Nellie’s laugh was a short bark. “As coisas estão me deixando louco.”

  “Louco. So it’s like Spanish.”

  Nellie unleashed a swift torrent of Caboverde whose general tone implied that I was an idiot. “Dude, you never say Portuguese and Spanish are the same! That’s a big-time insult—to both.”

  “I’m very sorry. I should have spotted the difference right away. Spanish sounds like singing, whereas Portuguese sounds like you’re gargling a mouthful of caterpillars with steel-wool bristles.”

  Nellie’s response was another bark of a laugh, and then two hands on my chest toppling me into the water.

  When I came up, I lunged for her, but she was too fast and slippery. She dived away and began freestyling out into the middle of the lake. I followed.

  When she finally stopped, it was deep enough that we had to tread water to stay afloat, so there was no possibility of grappling. I was winded, but she wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Hey, I got a question. Why you guys want to learn kriolu, anyhow? When Stan first laid out this gig, I was so excited I never thought to ask.”

  I could hardly tell her that we needed her language skills to abet our expatriate lifestyle after ripping off a local real estate baron for several million dollars. But luckily, the old scammer’s brain that had served me so well—or maybe not so well—in my lawyerly days kicked in, just as it had in Paget’s office, with what I hoped was a convincing explanation.

  “We were hoping to staff the lodge totally with minorities. You know, help the underprivileged. And when we learned about the big Cape Verdean population in Centerdale, and their strong work ethic, we thought they would make ideal employees. So we figured if we could communicate better with our future staff—”

  “Oh minha nossa, this is so awesome! I can’t wait to tell my mamãe and papai! The whole community will be so excited. Glen, I could kiss you!”

  Everything happened fast then. She threw her strong, lithe arms around my neck, and I had to churn harder with my legs and arms to keep us both afloat. Her firm, bountiful breasts pushed against my chest, with only that bit of polka-dot fabric intervening. Her lips, with just a hint of tongue protruding, were cool and cushiony and tasted like summer.

  When I came out of my swoon, she was already several yards away and swimming to shore.

  “I’m going to call them now!”

  Whatever was to come of my hasty lie, good or bad, I couldn’t regret it—not after that kiss. The years of enforced chastity had almost made me forget what pleasures were involved in such a commonplace act.

  Still, I had to alert Stan and the others to my improvised cover story so they could back me up. I suddenly wondered what Nellie made of Vee and Ray. They hardly seemed integral players in any entrepreneurial scheme to reopen the lodge. Maybe we could cast Vee as our silent partner, and Ray as her son or nephew or some such. Ah, well, I could surely invent something plausible if the topic came up.

  Meanwhile, I would just float around in the water until my erection subsided.

  * * *

  That evening, dining again in the cool under the stars, we had corn on the cob, tomato salad, and pork chops as thick as Barnaby Nancarrow’s wallet. Everyone but Ray enjoyed a cold sangria that Nellie had whipped up, rich with brandy, fresh fruit, and red wine. Our cybersavant quietly polished off a liter of Coke with lime slices.

  When we all were stuffed, Nellie said, “I’ll do dishes.”

  Sandralene said, “I’ll help.”

  The two women carted everything into the cook shack, leaving us four conspirators to hunker at the scrubbed picnic table around Ray’s eerily glowing iPad. Ray sat next to Stan on one fixed bench, and I sat by Vee on the other side.

  Vee’s palpable body heat and the scent of wood smoke in her hair contrasted with Nellie’s cool mermaid aura earlier. Something about Vee’s hard shell of angry indifference still made me want to crack it, to see what tenderness might lie hidden within. The clean line of her jaw seemed to be asking to have its tension eased with a touch. But while Vee made no move to inch away from me, neither did she encourage closer proximity. It seemed unlikely she would ever let down her guard—maybe not even at the successful conclusion of our sting.

  “I still think bringing Nellie out here was a good move,” said Stan. “She brightens up the place, and we’re gonna pick up her lingo for our new home. But I gotta tell you, Glen, you might have screwed the pooch with your whacked-out story about hiring all her second cousins.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Anyway, I hope not. Once we start contacting local businesses the way Schreiber wants us to, our public profile’s going to go large, and if an element of do-gooderism is seen to be involved, that can’t hurt.”

  “Maybe. All right, on to the progress report. Kid, what can you show us?”

  “Mr. Stan, Mr. Glen, you will now see some excellent programming. I am not much of a writer. I left that part to Vee and Mr. Glen. They have a way with words. But I am the one who put their words just where they have to be if we wish to lure Mr. Nancarow in. You told me he is always searching online for new business opportunities, for tips and rumors and leads. And he has staff members doing the same thing. Well, I have placed all our disinformation in the best places, where he and his helpers will be sure to see it. But it is not too obvious. He will need to dig a little. But then our stuff will pop up. And it doesn’t all sound the same—that is due to Mr. Glen and Vee, of course. But I made sure it doesn’t all come from the same place or type of place, either. We have multiple pages that we own, all disguised. And I have managed to get our false information to be carried by legitimate sources as well. For instance, there is an item on the official home page of Senator Flavio Almonte. I understand you have him in your pocket. Additionally, I’ve employed search-engine optimization—”

  Stan cut off Ray’s proud recitation. “Okay, okay, I get it. There’s a bunch of convincing online shit about how Bigelow Junction Motor Lodge could become the blossoming center of the casino universe, and Nancarrow can’t help but see it. But none of it can be traced back to you or to us, right?”

  Ray’s standard impassive expression listed a bit toward injured. “Mr. Stan, I leave no tracks.”

  “I assume you gotta do something to bring it all live?”

  “It is just a few keystrokes, Mr. Stan.”

  We all looked at one another by the warm, spooky light of the propane lantern hanging from a nearby tree limb. The step we were about to take seemed more definitive and irrevocable than anything up to now.

  “We’re good to go?” Stan asked all of us.

  Vee said, “Let’s hook this big fish, gaff him, gut him, and fillet him good.”

  22

  Elbert Tighe appeared to be constructed of baling wire, hickory, and reinforced canvas. Despite the sticky heat, his gnarled, white-haired wrists protruded from the buttoned cuffs of a blue work shirt, whose sweaty collar gaped around a scrawny, corded neck. And though he seemed all bone and sinew, he had the handshake of a man used to wrestling heavy drill bits and yard after yard of steel casing all day.

  Tighe and I were standing in the musty shed that held the old pumps and filtration system. He had spent half an hour in silent inspection while I swatted mosquitoes and tried to duck the cobwebs hanging from the raw planks of the pitched roof.

  At last, he concluded his examination, and we stepped outside t
he cramped structure.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Let’s go back to my truck. I’ve got some leaflets there.”

  Parked between the Impala and Vee’s Volkswagen was Tighe’s battered pickup. From both doors, it proclaimed in faded paint, first-rate well drilling and waterworks, along with his name and phone number.

  He retrieved a battered leather portfolio from the cab and brought it over to the table.

  “First off, the good news. Your pumps are basically okay. They need an overhaul, but they’re up to the job.”

  “All right,” I said. “Great. Now for the rest.”

  “You know, I told Bill Walters—fella owned this place before you—time and again how the rest of his setup weren’t up to code. But he just ignored me. Had a fix in with the inspectors, I reckon, so he needn’t bother to upgrade. System was okay when it was just him and his family living here, but when he built the lodge and had guests, different codes came into play. First off, the mouth of your intake pipe is too close to shore. It needs to be extended out farther into the lake. Otherwise, you’re gonna get baby pee and goose crap in your drinking water.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “That cheap-ass filtration unit, if you pardon my language, weren’t worth shit to begin with. And sittin’ idle all these years ain’t helped it none. You try supplying the needs of your guests with that, sooner or later they’re all gonna come down with the Tijuana trots, if you take my meaning. Surprised it hasn’t bothered you folks yet.”

  “So what do you recommend?”

  Tighe unzipped his portfolio and took out a colorful brochure. “US Water Systems Deluxe Pond and Lake Treatment Unit. This is a damn good company and a damn good product. Never heard a single complaint about ’em in twenty years. Now, look what you get with this. Sediment backwashing filter. Stenner peristaltic proportional chlorine injection. Plus ultraviolet disinfection. And it can handle fifteen gallons per minute. You’re just not going to find anything better for this price.”

  “And that price is?”

  “They regularly ask eleven thousand plus. But as a contractor, I can get it for you for seven. I won’t tack on any percentage because I want to see you folks make a go of this place. Labor will be about another thousand five, I estimate. And that includes overhauling the pumps and extending the intake pipe. Full five-year warranty on everything.”

  For a moment, I saw a formless gray void filled with a conga line of golden Panda coins, moving away in a mocking procession that swiftly dwindled to nothing. When my senses returned, I watched Tighe intently, looking for some tell that I was being ripped off. But the retail price of the system was there in black and white in the brochure, and the man radiated old-fashioned hardworking integrity.

  “We really need this system in place to run our business effectively?”

  “If you plan on keeping your customers out of the emergency room. But maybe you want to try drilling a well. Could end up costing you twice as much.”

  “Can I talk to my partner a moment about this?”

  “Sure.”

  I found Stan playing catch with Ray, using a big green softball. Stan was bare-handed, while the boy had a top-of-the-line mitt to complement his Yankees uniform. But Ray’s awkward stance and ungainly lunges for the ball negated any advantage the glove might have given him. Stan was surprisingly tolerant of the kid’s ineptness, lobbing soft and easy throws.

  I interrupted the game and explained to Stan everything I had just learned.

  “Why the hell are you even bothering me with this, Glen boy? Just do it! We gotta keep up the front, right? What’s a few bucks here and there when we’re gonna be millionaires?”

  “This is almost nine thousand dollars, Stan! A tenth of our capital!”

  “Chicken feed! Besides, you don’t want the ladies getting sick, do you? They won’t put out if they’re puking their guts.”

  “Jesus, Stan, I wish I had your confidence!”

  “What’s to get all wound about? Either we come out of this filthy rich, or we’re just back where we started from.”

  “Minus all my investment!”

  “Glen, you know that the money you plucked from them impoverished orphans and widows during your shyster days could never have been spent in good conscience.”

  “But we’re ripping off Nancarrow!”

  “That’s different. He deserves it. Now, go back and sign those papers, or whatever you have to do to make it so we’re not drinking pond scum and tadpoles.”

  I returned to Tighe, who was sitting just as peacefully and patiently as Davy Crockett waiting outside a bear’s cave.

  “Mr. Tighe, my partner agrees that this is the only way to proceed. Let’s get the paperwork done.”

  Tighe stood up. “No paperwork necessary, son, just a handshake.”

  I submitted to having my hand mangled again. Then Tighe said, “Have to go into Centerdale to grab the unit. Be out here tomorrow, have the whole job done the day after that.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Tighe.”

  “Name’s Elbert, son.”

  Tighe drove off, and I decided I had done enough for the day. I still had to find and call other tradespeople to help us. A roofer, a landscaper, a laundry service, the local media outlets, and a wholesale food supplier—all to satisfy Wilson Schreiber’s timetable for the eventual relaunch of the lodge. But I couldn’t face the prospect of bleeding more money just yet.

  I went looking for whatever cold company Vee might provide, but she was nowhere to be found. I knew she had taken to hiking alone on the local trails, and I wasn’t at all sure I could find her.

  In the end, I went back to my room for a nap. The warm but nonetheless agreeable space felt like being swaddled in a comforting blanket. A small window fan pushed the air around just enough. I stripped all my clothes off, peeled back the spread, and reclined gratefully on the clean sheets. I dropped right off into the deep end of nowhere.

  I had a dream of being back at Ghent, Goolsbee & Saikiri. I was having some kind of important meeting in my luxurious office. Spouting nonsensical legal jargon, I knew that I was impressing the clients—who remained disturbingly faceless—and that I was going to emerge from this case with a huge payoff. It felt good to rake in the big money. I deserved it.

  Then the clients were gone and I was alone in the office with one of the legal secretaries—that woman with the strawberry-blond hair and the freckles and the deep white cleavage always on display whose name I could no longer recall, awake or asleep. I was sitting in my nice ergonomic chair with my pants around my ankles and my cock in her mouth.

  I emerged from the dream to find Nellie on the bed with me, duplicating the actions of the woman in the dream. When she saw I was awake, she didn’t stop for any explanation—just grabbed my hand and put it down her shirt and on her bare breast. Now it was not wet and slippery and buoyant, but warm and heavy in my hand.

  My first climax in many months took but little time to arrive. I pulled her up onto me, and somehow, she had her denim shorts off in a flash, bare beneath.

  “Vou meter em você ate você gritar meu nome!” she said.

  She rode me hard and fast until we both came; then she dropped forward, her face in the cradle of my neck and shoulder.

  “Oh, Glen,” she murmured, “this is how you really learn the language!”

  23

  Certainly, Wilson Schreiber could not expect us to move forward on other preparations for the lodge relaunch until Tighe had finished installing the new waterworks. And the output of the new filters would still have to be tested by a local lab. So that gave us a day or three without duties—the fake ones, anyway.

  Having kicked off the online deception two nights ago, I had been obsessively monitoring the reports that Ray could produce, about who visited what site of ours, or linked to it, and who clicked whe
re, and whether they had actually read the posting, and any associated chatter that his alerts might have triggered. Ray had reluctantly lent me his iPad during the day, as if he were surrendering his firstborn, after showing me how to refresh the various metrics. Like some politician tracking his poll numbers, or an author obsessing over his sales figures at Amazon, I checked every ten minutes, waiting for Nancarrow’s IP address to show up. But there was nothing so far.

  We had a standing order to Senator Almonte to call us if Nancarrow put out direct feelers to him. But no such call had yet come.

  After about eight hours of driving myself crazy this way, around four in the afternoon I returned Ray’s iPad to him with instructions to call me at the first sign of activity.

  “Mr. Glen,” he said, “I have several bots running that will inform me immediately of developments of this nature. I could have told you earlier, but you seemed too nervous to listen.”

  “Yes, well, your instincts were correct. I probably wouldn’t have listened. But in the future, try me anyway.”

  “People are not very logical, Mr. Glen, are they?”

  “Ray, you are wise beyond your years.”

  The kid smiled, then got busy with his gleefully reclaimed tablet. “The Yankees are playing the Red Sox tonight at Fenway, Mr. Glen. I’m extremely excited. Their rivalry is long-standing and intense.”

  Concentrating on the computer all day, I had slighted Nellie, and now I sought her out.

  Yesterday’s late-afternoon sex had not led directly to our sleeping together throughout the night. At the end of our postcoital cuddling, needing to get up for our communal supper, she had seemed just as relieved as I when I suggested that we keep our new intimacy to ourselves for a little while, until we could figure out how to introduce the development to Stan and Sandralene and Vee. Not that what Nellie and I chose to do together would normally have been any of their business. But under these cloistered circumstances so fraught with tension, expectations, and anxiety, we all owed each other a certain degree of transparency. Too much was riding on our functioning as a tight unit, and any uncertainty could be divisive. But we had to deliver the news in the way least disruptive to our social dynamics.