by Greg Dragon
“I ran his name twice and even matching it to Elani Graves’ name produced nothing except their marriage date.”
Brent pumped his fist above his head. “A creeper.” He raised his hands and danced.
“Creeper? What’s that?” Bud asked.
Tim stepped from the bathroom. “Someone totally off the internet. At least the part of the net that Brent can hack into.”
“Anyone who’s a creeper has something to hide. I guarantee it.” Brent rubbed his hands together as he became the hunter.
“Excuse me,” the computer said. “There is data on his father, Dr. Sidney Graves, but it seems to be conflicting because the articles about him are not uniform.”
“Summarize any salient data,” Tim said.
“I am not programmed to obey your voice.”
“Go ahead and summarize.” Brent lowered his voice as if he were a spy.
The computer detailed Dr. Sid Graves’ work at NASA, and on ME-1 and ME-2, the first two missions to Mars with astronauts. After that, he had worked in organizations to reduce Earth’s population. The computer ended with an epitaph: “He committed suicide in 2049. For one so successful, such a death is illogical. Do you want me to try and access the Latter Day Saints’ genealogy computer in Utah for more data? That will require your special password.”
“No. That’s enough. I’m convinced that some kind of hanky-panky is going on with Dr. Graves and The Club.” Brent saw Tim rummaging through the bag in search of ready-to-eat items he might have missed earlier. “Ah, ah. The rest is mine for vetting Bud for you.”
“All I know for sure is that the good doctor and his wife exist. I should get some of this food besides that stinky vegetable protein I ate. It’s already giving me gas. You didn’t give us any good info on The Club.”
“When my friend applied for it, I ran the specs in the ad through my Conspiracy Buster Logarithm Program,” Brent said.
“And?” Bud leaned forward.
“It will cost you the rest of the food.”
Bud stepped into the kitchen, snatched the bag away from Tim and tossed it to Brent. “Okay, what did your conspiracy buster thing tell you about The Club?”
Brent frowned after examining the remnants in the bag. “Hey, there’s only some half empty jars of olives left. I hate olives.”
Bud stomped to the computer. “Download ten food credits from my card to your master’s card.” He waved his FSIN card at the monitor.
“I am not programmed to respond to your voice.”
“Do it.” Brent smiled. “Computer, also tell Bud what your Conspiracy Buster Logarithm Program came up with on The Club. He seems kind of anxious to find out.”
“Based on the expense and effort Dr. Graves went to, his selection of its members appears to have been his first priority. He advertised for members in 147 countries.”
“Bottom line, computer. Time is money.” Tim pointed at his watch.
“There is an eighty-three percent probability that Dr. Graves’ formulation of The Club is a part of a broader conspiracy.”
“What kind of conspiracy?” Tim asked.
“Based on the logarithms programmed into me, it appears to be a conspiracy to gain control.”
“Control of the world, right?” Bud asked.
“Possibly. I advise you to conduct further research.”
7
On the subterranean train ride back to Los Angeles, Bud pondered how to frame his request. He inspected the stain on his shirt, a reminder of where saliva and bits of food from Brent Fulsome the troglodyte had landed. His gaze moved to his right hand and he wondered what sorts of bacteria and viruses had transferred to it by wiping the mess off a half hour ago. The green scum on Brent Fulsome’s kitchen and bathroom sinks had kept Bud from using them.
Deadly organisms could still be alive, seeking entrance to his body. But what if he already had touched his mouth, eyes, ears, or nose since the tiny invaders landed on his shirt? Then they already were multiplying inside him by the second.
“Entering L.A. West Station. Next stop after L.A. West will be L.A. North Station.” The automated announcement snapped Bud back to other concerns.
“Well, this is my stop. I’ll get back to you with my estimate,” Tim said as he stood. “If you stay on this train, it will take you straight home to Pasadena.”
“We have one more preliminary step before I can sign the contract,” Bud said. They exited the train and walked to the nearest stairway. “You have to meet my father.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before we got off?” Tim did an about-face to return to the tracks. “Now we have to wait for the next train. You need to learn to speak up more.”
“Uh, my father is very formal and you are dressed very casually.”
Tim examined his pants and shirt. “Hope you aren’t expecting me to show up in a tux. In fact, I don’t even have a suit at my apartment. But there might still be one at my wife’s house if she didn’t throw my clothes away.”
“You’re married?”
“We’re separated. Wait. I can borrow a suit from my neighbor instead.”
When they reached Tim’s living complex, a miffed little girl met them in the lobby.
“Where have you been?” June thrust her face at Tim. “The clerk said you weren’t home.” She pointed at the robot who monitored all visitors and allowed them access to the elevators if the asked for resident answered his phone call. “He wouldn’t let me in even when I said I had to give something to Moose.”
“Sorry, I’ve been sort of busy,” Tim said.
“I found Moose some fish.” June pulled a can of tuna from her pack.
Scenes of eating the chunks of fish and letting his cat have the smallest pieces and liquid made Tim grab for it.
June dropped the can back into her pack. “No way. I get to visit Moose because I had to wait so long.”
* * *
Moose hid under Tim’s bed when she heard more than one person entering the apartment. But June’s, “Here kitty, kitty,” brought her out of hiding.
“I’ll check on borrowing that suit while you two get acquainted.” Tim backed out through the still open door.
Bud emerged from the bathroom, relieved to have at last washed the residue of his visit to Brent Fulsome from his hands. He dried them on his pants because the sole towel in the bathroom smelled of mold and mildew.
“Isn’t this place nice?” June asked.
“Sort of small.” He wondered how Mole People such as Tim maintained their sanity living in a space smaller than Bud’s bedroom.
“But at least it’s warm and safe in here. And he can even have a pet like Moose.” She continued to stroke the cat, which purred and massaged June’s legs. “Where do you live?”
“In Pasadena.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful place. You’re really lucky.”
“How about you? Where do you live?”
Her head sagged. “Outside, sometimes. We got kicked out of our apartment because they said my dad is a sub…subver…”
“Subversive?” Bud took a step back. He wondered if the lobby’s cameras had recorded him standing near June. “Was your father ever sent to the L.A. Detention Center?”
“Just for a little while. He said they didn’t have any evidence so they let him go. But our landlord was mean and he kicked us out after that.”
Bud studied the youngster. One word seemed adequate to describe her: innocent. But also wise beyond her years because of too much life too soon.
He remembered a recent sermon of Pastor Tully about how, “God expects us to care for widows and orphans.” The rational part of Bud’s soul tried to analyze June’s sad tale so he could put it out of his mind and focus on his book. She’s not an orphan. Besides, there must be tens of thousands just like her. Maybe even hundreds of thousands in SLD.
But placing her into his often used, “sure, this person is needy but not as bad off as…” category did not ease his conscience. After a minut
e of turmoil, he called his church. The secretary robot answered and placed June’s family’s name on the list for shelter. When the call ended, tears were dampening Moose’s fur. The cat responded by licking June’s damp, salty cheeks.
“Why do you want to help us out? I just met you. The only other person who cares about us is Tim.” She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her torn windbreaker.
“Because…because…”
Part of Bud wanted to say, ‘I love you,’ but expressing emotion had never been easy for him. His throat tightened, making his words raspy. “Because it’s the right thing to do, I guess.” He turned when his eyes began to glisten.
Tim returned as Bud pretended to sneeze and blow his nose. “No luck. My neighbor’s suit didn’t fit me. I called my wife and she said she still hasn’t given away my clothes.”
* * *
Bethany Beheard rummaged through the closet containing her husband’s finest clothes, remnants of his better days, “before he went off the deep end,” her usual explanation about their separation.
This was her least favorite room of the modest 1,173 square-foot house. She never bothered to clean or organize it as she did weekly for the rest of her home. Over time, it took on the smell and appearance of a tomb. Into it she had crammed every reminder of Tim and their marriage.
She stared at the “Most Likely to Succeed” plaque, awarded by Tim’s journalism club during college. Its words cut her soul.
“Most likely to fail is more like it.” She shook her head while she pulled the one suit without holes from the hiding place of the moths she hoped would consume all of his clothes. Maybe she could even convince them to eat the other items – photos, gifts…Not only was he most likely to succeed, but so was their marriage, according to family and friends.
A year younger than Tim, she had abandoned her dream to be a doctor to marry him during his senior year of college. So she got her PHT, Put Husband Through, instead of the M.D. she wanted. Bethany had worked at one of the many agri-plants in San Bernardino, which converted produce into vegetable, carb, and protein products. America’s growing population demanded the compact, high density food.
At first, Tim did succeed; quickly moving up from a small daily paper to a medium sized one to the largest in the western United States, the SLD Times. Always restless, Tim also moonlighted, writing articles for other publications by using pen names to deceive his editors at the Times. Back then, they even made time for church, she in the choir and he at most worship services.
But both soon became so exhausted by work schedules that they spent little time discussing what she deemed important. How else could they afford the house she still lived in? It needed major repairs after the 2035 quake and tsunami, but by the time they bought it in 2062, it had upgrades, all the current appliances and comforts, all computer controlled.
Their first child, a daughter, arrived three years later. A son came twelve years after her.
Regrets always nagged Bethany if she entered the room. After much reflection, Bethany concluded their marriage, their family, everything, began to unravel when a literary agent who she freelanced for had contacted them with a need.
“My client has a solid plot and decent enough characters but she can’t connect the dots into a believable and enjoyable story,” the agent had said. “Tim, you could ghostwrite it and Bethany could edit it. You’ve done great work on those other books you edited for me, Bethany. Besides, it will need a woman’s touch to put back in all of what Tim leaves out.”
“You mean the mush, the kissy poo, the romance?” Tim had held his nose.
Bethany shut the door to reminders of what seemed a lifetime ago. Why did I ever agree to let Ann talk to Tim about that book?
* * *
Bud daydreamed about his book while they walked the four blocks from the train station to Tim’s former home in the north central part of Los Angeles. Almost one of every two houses they passed also had an underground dwelling, which meant two homeowners each for those lots.
The neighborhood’s residents included bureaucrats who worked at the city, county, state, federal, and international government buildings in downtown Los Angeles; lower tier actors who commuted to the studios; and the carpenters, electricians, and robot wranglers who built and maintained the sets at the studios. There were younger couples starting their life together, and older folks, some divorced or widowed, lonely and wondering why life had dealt them such a bad hand of cards.
Tim hesitated at the front door. “Let me do the talking so we can get in and out of there without a fight.”
Bud nodded.
Bethany’s smile after she opened the door soothed their fears. “So you’re Tim’s client?” Bethany coughed. “Been a while since you had one, huh, dear? You two please sit down while I get you something to drink. You want anything, dear?”
“No thank you.” Tim sat back and planted his feet on the mahogany coffee table to try and reclaim ownership of the house. Why did he feel like a guest in the house he had worked for decades to pay off? Maybe because she called him, dear. That’s it. What kind of game is she playing this time, he wondered.
“Sort of ironic, isn’t it?” Bethany handed a glass of vegetable juice to Bud and the blue suit to her estranged husband.
“My blue suit is ironic?”
“No, silly. Ann got you that job that convinced you to become a freelance writer full time and now all these years later she sends Bud your way. Maybe this time around you can finally come to your senses and get a real job like the one you quit because you became a freelancer.”
“Don’t start in on me!” Tim stood and threw the freshly pressed suit onto the many shades of the Saltillo tiles. “I always worked my butt off to take care of you and the kids. Sure, I didn’t make as much by freelancing. But if you would have gone back to work, it would have worked out okay.”
“What about your children? The least you could have done is send us more money after you moved out.”
“Nah, nah, nah. Still the same old nagger. You’re just a gold digger. Go ahead and get a divorce. Only now, I won’t have to pay child support, just alimony to support your worthless butt.”
Bethany stepped away from the source of her pain, too much hurt bottled up inside her soul for too many years. The argument went back and forth until Bud placed his half-finished drink on the table and stood. Part of him wanted to continue to watch the fight. He was mystified by Bethany’s beauty, her long brunette hair and brown eyes, their radiance intensifying as her anger had risen.
“Excuse me. Forgive me, Mrs. Beheard, but we have to be getting to my home for dinner. It’s getting late.”
The crimson-faced, spittle launching couple turned and stared at him. In their rage, they had forgotten the witness to their ten rounds, winner-take-all, verbal slugfest.
Tim collapsed onto the couch as Bethany went from shaking her finger at him to sobbing. “Go ahead and be bull-headed, Tim. You always were and always will be. I give up.”
Bud handed Tim the crumpled suit. He took it to the room he called Forget Me Not Land and changed into it. When he returned to the living room, he handed Bud a book titled, Writing the Next Best Seller and said, “So we can impress your old man.”
Tim waited until they stood at the front door to say good bye. He cupped his hands and yelled at the closed door of the room where his two children had been conceived.
“Dear, thank you for the suit, dear. And thanks for all the drama, dear. Bud enjoyed your performance, dear. Dear, you should win an Oscar…”
He jumped through the front door and ran down the brick walkway after Bethany emerged from the bedroom armed with a fist.
She shook it while launching her final salvos at him from the front porch.
“There he goes again, the poor tortured writer that nobody understands. If you had any sense, Mr. Lee, you’d dump that loser like I did.”
8
“Anything I should or shouldn’t say?” Tim asked.
&nb
sp; Bud frowned. “Just don’t kowtow or try to impress my father. He will see right through you, like your wife does.”
Bud’s mother Nora met them at the Pasadena North train station in her biofuel Toyota. Her skin glowed and short black hair had the silky quality of her long, traditional gown, one embroidered with red, blue, and yellow designs, an heirloom she reserved for guests to her home.
“You didn’t have to pick us up, Mom.”
“Your father sent me because you are already twenty minutes late.” She let the computer drive the car while she monitored the dinner preparations at her home. “Place the soup on the table and check the oven for the prawns and dim sum,” she ordered while she watched her robot maid from the dashboard screen.
Judging by the few vehicles parked in front of the homes on the Lees’ block, Tim knew that few, if any of them, had a second home buried underneath the ones he could see. Tranquility, a laid back feeling of relaxation permeated the neighborhood. Tim remembered that his had been like this one when he and Bethany had moved into their house. But now it required constant security against burglars.
Bud’s father Chan shepherded them to the table after a brief introduction. His large smile seemed disproportionate to the rest of his 145-pound body. He let the other three make small talk during soup and dim sum courses and sampled a morsel of the fried prawns, beef chow mien, and fried rice dishes before passing them to Tim.
“Delicious as usual, Nora, even though you had to leave the kitchen to fetch them from the station,” Chan said.
Tim blinked as he saw the similarities of father and son. Both possessed a similar intensity, as if consumed by the same mission. “A true feast, Mr. Lee.”
“You may call me Chan. So what do you truly think of my son’s plan of writing a book about this mysterious group he calls The Club?”
“I think it has definite possibilities.” Like father, like son, Tim thought. Both of them like to get down to business.
