“You’re not attorneys,” Coe said.
“This?” Shackleton said, looking briefly down at the gun. “It’s a hearing aid.”
“We’ve got a proposition for you, Mr. Coe,” Locksley said. “The guns are just to be certain you hear our deal.”
“I’m in a hovercar flying high above the city. What else do I have to do but listen?”
“We want you to carry out an assassination,” they said.
Twilight had turned to dusk. The lights downtown were on. Vid screens, advertising cosmetics and televisions and hovercars and any other thing you couldn’t possibly live without, flashed and flickered for the army of marching nomads on the streets below.
“You want me to kill someone?”
“Assassinate,” they said.
“Semantics,” he said. “Who?”
Locksley laughed. “Very good. Excellent sport, isn’t he? Jumps right in, feet first.”
Shackleton said, “Obviously, the keyword here is assassination, meaning the target is someone of substance.”
“A world leader?” Coe asked.
“Politician? Oh, no,” Locksley said. “No one bothers with that anymore.”
“I mean, really,” Shackleton snorted.
“Corporate?” Coe said.
“Arturio Golden,” Locksley said.
The name meant nothing to Coe.
“Steele,” Shackleton said. “Owns fifty-one percent of the company.”
“He’s holding up the deal,” Locksley said. “Doesn’t want to part with his shares.”
“Quantum wants to buy Steele?” Coe asked.
“Not directly,” Shackleton said, sounding annoyed. “Horizon, Inc.”
“Who is owned by Galaxy-Star/Tunisia,” Locksley said. “Who is owned by Aire, LCC.”
“Who is owned by...” Shackleton said.
Locksley said, “Drum roll, please.”
“Quantum.”
“Exactly,” one of them—maybe both of them—said.
“And what if I don’t want to do it? I’m not in the killing business,” Coe said.
“You have a moral objection?” They had morphed into one identity to Coe, now.
“I’m not a killer.”
“Assassin.”
They laughed.
“I have no choice, do I?”
“Everyone has a choice—there’s always a choice.”
“You’ll kill me,” he said. “That’s my choice, isn’t it?”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
A letter was produced. It was in Coe’s own handwriting.
To whom it may concern:
I murdered Susan Blanchard in her apt. We were lovers. We had an online relationship. When she ended the relationship, I was infuriated. I used resources at my disposal at Quantum to locate her physical whereabouts and I went to her home to ask for a second chance. When she refused, I used a marble bookend to strike her repeatedly against the head until she died. I am unable to live with what I’ve done, so I’ve decided to kill myself. Please forgive me.
Scott Coe
Coe handed the letter back to the attorney. “How did you manage to have it written in my writing?”
They said, “You’ve been an employee of Quantum for many years. We have enough documents written in your hand. It wasn’t terribly difficult to duplicate. We’ve got every kind of expert at our disposal.”
“Why not use a professional killer then?” he asked. “Why some newly promoted clerk?”
“Their experts know our experts. It’s a push, if you will. Our guys watch their guys; their guys watch our guys. It’s a simple, yet highly effective, way to keep both sides in check. But, a new auditor from Research? No one’s watching you. At least not in that way.”
“And how do you expect me, an ordinary Joe, to pull this off?”
“We’ll supply you with everything you need—a dossier, your target’s itinerary, a highly-sophisticated weapon.”
“She’s not dead,” he said.
“Mr. Shackleton,” Locksley said. “Show Mr. Coe.”
“The photograph?”
“The photograph, Mr. Shackleton.”
Shackleton removed a hand-held communicator from his blazer and passed it to Coe. On it, was a photo. It depicted a woman lying across a sofa. Much of her head and face was beaten nearly beyond recognition. Still, it wasn’t difficult for Coe to recognize the apt from where he had just come, or the woman he’d once known as Janeiro—despite the trauma inflicted on her head. She was wearing the same clothes he had just seen her in.
“And if we can get personal for a moment. You can certainly do much better. A man of your moderate business success should aim a bit higher than,” Locksley said, making a point of scanning a file. “Sometimes pornographic actress, former prostitute, exotic dancer, and cam girl.”
“Drug convictions,” Shackleton added. “Short prison stay, probation violations, DNA trafficking—”
“You get the point,” Locksley said.
“How could she have been murdered if I had only just—”
“Only minutes after you’d left,” they said.
“You were hiding inside her apt?”
“Not us,” they said. “We’re attorneys. This is about as involved as we get in this type of muck. It’s all unpleasant. She was a pretty girl. It’s a shame.”
Locksley removed an attache case from the back seat and handed it to Coe.
He opened it to reveal a rifle disassembled inside, along with a folder marked CLASSIFIED. He fingered the parts of the gun: the stock, the scope, the springs and internal mechanisms. It all looked very sophisticated and very real. He thought of Janeiro—the fictional character with whom he had fallen in love with, now presumably battered and dead in her apt. “She’s really dead?” he asked, though it came out as more of statement.
“She was playing a dangerous game,” they said. “No one signs on without knowing the risks.”
“I didn’t know the risks.”
Locksley laughed. “Didn’t know the risks? It never crossed your mind that as you were agreeing to sell secrets to Steele—and thereby shit all over your long-time employer—that there couldn’t be possible negative reverberations from your ill-informed choices?”
“Chicken or egg?” Coe asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they said.
“I was entrapped,” he said. “I’m just not certain what came first at this point.”
“As your counsel,” Shackleton said, “I would advise you against such retro thinking. There’s really only one thing you should worry yourself with now: a decision. Carry out a simple assignment for which you are almost guaranteed success...”
“Or?”
Locksley leaned over him and poked the gun into his ribs. “Jump to your death.”
“What’s to stop Quantum from killing me after I do it?”
Shackleton laughed. “Obviously we can’t offer you anything in writing due to the sensitive nature of the assignment.”
“But,” Locksley said. “We can give you our word, you will return to normal life with no further threat or involvement from us—provided you never tell a soul.”
“Normal life?”
“Back to your auditor’s desk, back to poking Ms. Hunter,” Locksley said.
“We commend you on your choice,” Shackleton said. “She’s sublime.”
He looked down at the disassembled gun. “What’s stopping me from using this gun on—“ He instantly realized he did not know who the CEO of Quantum was. “Someone from the company.”
“You’ll be watched,” they said. “An expert sniper with a clever peashooter identical to that contraption you’re holding there, will be trained on your temple from an undisclosed location.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t make this difficult,” Locksley said. “You’re being offered a free pass back into the fold...all your past transgressions absolved.”
“Was Revis offered the same assignment?”
“Mr. Revis was unfortunately beyond salvation,” Locksley said. “Though you should be relieved to know, his death wasn’t an inside job.”
High above the city, the rain clouds parted offering a fleeting glimpse of the setting sun—the first since Coe’s arrival. Despite it’s deadly implications, the gun in his lap weighed nearly nothing at all.
“Okay,” Coe said, as if he really had a choice, and stared ahead at the sliver of orange light dissolving back into the clouds.
Ten.
(A letter to the editor of The Intelligencer)
This is in response to Bryan Gilliam’s recent op-ed piece on gender equality and sexism in our culture (“We All Need to Know Our Roles” Apr. 16) and Joanne Loomis’s rather puzzling response (“Frustrated in the Clerical Pool” Apr. 19). Ms. Loomis needs to understand that not every woman should—nor needs to—aim for the boardroom. Most women are perfectly content with the role in which culture has assigned us, whether that be typist, baker, masseuse, advertisement model, stay-at-home-life-giver to future generations (my moniker and one which I proudly embrace), sandwich maker, laundress, housekeeper, boo-boo healer, errand-runner, organizer, soother, pleasure vessel, etc. And what is so wrong with that? What business do we have to play with the boys, anyway? No more than our husbands and mates have meddling in our laundry, cooking, cleaning, organizing, or housekeeping duties. My role is an integral part of our family unit. I manage the home front while my husband goes off to war (corporate variety, obviously), and I take my duties very seriously. It is my responsibility that my man has a clean house to come home to, a warm meal to sustain him, and clean clothes for the following day’s work. I take particular issue with Ms. Loomis’s call to action that we women withhold physical intimacy from the men until we, as a gender, are taken more seriously. Well, Ms. Loomis, some of us proudly offer up our bodies to our men, without shame, and we don’t feel used. I can’t speak for Ms. Loomis’s personal relations with her husband (though one doubts with her attitude she even has a man), but lovemaking with my man is a mutually beneficial and pleasurable experience and it’s something I will never refuse my husband, no matter how little sleep I have had the past three nights because our 10 month-old twins are colicky. It’s an expression of our love and mutual respect for one another, and it helps him get to sleep when he has an upcoming hectic day at the office awaiting him. If Ms. Loomis thinks it’s so bad here in America, The Alliance of Western Nations, and on planet Earth, perhaps she needs to relocate to Mars where there are whole communities governed by women.
Name Withheld by Request
“What are you doing here?” Ms. Hunter asked.
“What do you mean?” Coe had just sat down at his desk.
He was tired from a sleepless night of mostly staring at the attache case which contained the rifle—the rifle he was to use later in the day to assassinate the majority shareholder of Steele.
“Security was just here looking for you,” she said. The nervousness in her voice was apparent.
“Security?”
“You have to go,” she said. “You must leave now.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“They know,” she said.
“They know? About wha—?”
“They’re coming!” she said, looking out into the aisle. “Mitchell, Lyme...Ms. Davenport—they’re leading them.”
“Where will I go?”
“Go!” she cried.
Coe dashed from the cubicle. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Mitchell, of Lyme—of Davenport—walking ahead of Quantum security officers dressed as stormtroopers.
“Mr. Coe,” Mitchell cried. “Wait!”
He didn’t. He heard a scuffle behind him, heard Ms. Hunter scream, “Run, Scotty!”
He headed for the bank of elevators, his Florscheims clicking across the marble floors. Just then, an elevator opened. It was Carmen, the elevator operator.
“In here,” she said. “Quickly!”
Coe ran for the elevator, the battalion of security officers nearly upon him. He dove in, fell onto the floor, his shoulder striking the wall. She quickly closed the doors as the first officer reached the elevator.
“Where to, Mr. Coe?” she asked.
“Ground floor,” he said, standing up. “Out of the building. As fast as you can.”
“Have you been to forty-five yet?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I just need to get out of here.”
“I think you need to go to forty-five,” she said.
“Just get me out of the fucking building, please.”
She sat down on her stool and crossed her legs. “Well,” she said. “They’ll have security waiting for you on ground level. You won’t make it out of the lobby. I’ve got something better.”
She pushed two. She did that thing where she left her shoe dangle from her toes.
“How did you know I’d be there?” he asked.
“There’s been a buzz,” she said. “Frankly, I’m surprised they let you make it to your desk. I suppose they wanted to apprehend you with familiar faces.”
“Mitchell?”
She grinned. “You’ve played the game quite well,” she said. “Certainly better than Mr. Revis.”
“Game?”
They were at two. The doors opened. She grasped Coe by his hand and hesitantly peered out into the hall. “Come on.”
She paused to put an “Out of Order” sign on the elevator, then she led him down a dimly-lit corridor that showed signs of renovation. Plastic covers lay on the floor; ceiling tiles were missing revealing a network of pipes, of wiring.
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Coe...I like you.” She squeezed his hand for assurance. “I’m on your side. We’re all pulling for you.”
There were bare bulbs and bare floors—in some places stripped to reveal even more wires and conduits. “This way,” she said, opening a door to a stairwell.
They raced down the steps. Coe counted two more levels. Carmen pushed open a door to what appeared to be a boiler room. There was the hum of machinery, of vibrating mechanisms. The floor was cement; there were no windows. Save for the exit light glowing red above the door, there was no light at all.
“Mr. Orton?” she called.
“Is that you, Carmen?” a clearly digitized voice responded from somewhere in the shadows.
“I’ve got Mr. Coe,” she said.
Coe tensed. The statement made him feel for a moment as if he had been apprehended by her.
“Shoo him in, dear,” the voice said. “Shoo him in.”
Still holding his hand, she led Coe carefully through the darkness, past a vibrating contraption throwing off heat. She found a door that was not marked by an illuminated exit sign. The electronic voice said, “Open your eyes as wide as you can. Try not to blink.” It was very close, as if it were coming from a speaker in the wall.
“Stand still, sweetheart,” Carmen whispered.
Coe stiffened. He opened his eyes very wide and he did not blink. After a moment passed in which nothing happened and Coe had begun to think he had not opened his eyes wide enough, a green beam of light appeared and scanned over his eyes.
“Retinal scan,” Carmen said, softly. “It will only work with you, I’m afraid. For the sake of maintaining the identity of an elevator operator, I’m not permitted that kind of access.”
“Don’t worry,” The electronic voice of Mr. Orton said. “We’ve fixed it so it won’t register at the security desk.”
The door opened. Coe was momentarily blinded by a wash of white light.
“Come in,” the voice of M
r. Orton said, no longer digitized. “Hurry. You, too, my dear. You obviously can’t go back to your post now.”
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Orton was a prematurely graying man with a black mustache and dark eyebrows. He wore a white lab coat, baggy, gray corduroy trousers, and sneakers. He was surrounded by a team of similarly dressed men in lab coats.
Orton kissed Carmen lightly on the cheek and then brazenly squeezed her ass. She didn’t seem to fully enjoy, but she wasn’t necessarily repulsed by it, either.
“So,” Orton said, still grinning as if he’d just gotten away with something. “This Locksley and...”
“Shackleton,” Coe said.
“Right. Quantum’s house counsel, you say?” To Carmen, he said, “Can you check on that?”
“They’re on the directory,” she said, perched atop a table, legs crossed—one shoe off—massaging the sole of the bare foot. “Neither one has used my elevator, but nevertheless, it seems as though they’ve told him the truth.”
Orton said, “And they’ve provided you with an assassination kit of some sort and charged you with the termination of the Steele chief?”
“Or I’ll be implicated in the murder of Janeiro,” Coe said.
Orton laughed. “I like their style. Oh, yes. This Quantum company is a sticky place.”
“Who are you?” Coe asked.
“I’m Mr. Orton. These are my colleagues,” he said with a wave, addressing the other lab coats. “And you’ve already met the lovely Carmen...”
“Who do you work for? What is this down here?”
“Officially? We’re Quantum employees...same as you. But we represent ‘other’ interests, as well.”
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