Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  He called his contact in LA and described the piece. They agreed on a price of $34,000 if it came as described. Cash wasn’t a problem. He’d go to Los Angeles tomorrow and do the transaction.

  Then he made the call he’d been dreading. Penny answered the phone with a dull monotone; she sounded like her soul had been torn out.

  “Hi, Penny, it’s Rich Guy.”

  “Ste...how…how are you? Is everything okay?” she inquired.

  “Good as can be expected. How are you holding up?”

  “It’s hard. It still hasn’t dawned on me this is real. I always thought I’d outlive Peter, but not this way.” Her voice cracked. “Last night was really bad.”

  Steven swallowed. “I can imagine. I remember when Mom died. Last night…I didn’t have a very good night either, Penny.” He debated telling her about his suspicion about Peter’s death being related to him, but decided against it for now. She was already going through enough. They talked for a few minutes, but she was obviously still in shock.

  “I’ll call you again later on today, okay?” Steven said. “Make sure you’re hanging in there. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, honey.”

  Focal Point: Chapter 5

  New York stood stifling in the brooding mood of June. Sporadic thunderstorms did little to dispel the hanging muggy humidity that sequestered the sweating city. Ensconced in his offices, Griffen was leaning back with his feet up on his desk, talking to someone on the phone. Trading was almost over for the day and he didn’t have any active campaigns on the agenda.

  Griffen terminated the call, and his e-mail popped up. He read the latest messages and stopped dead. He swore; typed in a web address, and swore again. He picked up the phone and called Glen.

  “What the hell is going on? The site’s back up.” Griffen wasn’t happy. His photo was also posted there in all its glory.

  “Let me look into it,” Glen said. “I hadn’t realized it was down.”

  That’s right. Glen didn’t know about the servers being taken out, or any of the rest of it. He just knew the topic had stopped being an issue. He also knew enough not to ask any questions.

  Griffen grunted. “Could you see if you can find out where it’s located and who’s operating it again?”

  “I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

  Griffen’s next call was to Sergei. The receptionist was cordial, making sure he was put through quickly.

  “Nicholas, my friend. What a pleasant surprise. I trust everything is well with you.” Sergei, good humored, always happy to hear from his old friend, Nicholas Griffen.

  “I’m good. But I was better when I thought my problem had gone away. Do you have any update?” Griffen had to be careful here. He didn’t want to know too much.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You may want to look at the web, see if there’s anything of interest there. Perhaps we can have a drink later today or tomorrow,” Griffen proposed.

  “I will take your suggestion to heart. I’ll get my girl to call if I have time to take a drink or two…yes?” Sergei came over equally cagey.

  “That sounds fine, Sergei. Just fine. Dosvidanya.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven had tracked down Patricia Cavierti in New Jersey, the ex-wife of Jim Cavierti, via the web – with a little help from the Group. Took all of two hours. He dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered.

  “Mrs. Cavierti?”

  “Who is this?” she asked cautiously.

  “This is Andy Tern, from Galvin, Tern and Brinkley, LLP. I’ve been asked to look into the untimely death of your husband, Jim Cavierti,” Steven said. “I just wanted to ask a few questions, if I could.”

  “Look, I don’t know what or who you are, but I don’t talk about Jim’s passing on. So you’re wasting your time,” she said, sounding like she was about to hang up.

  Steven softened his approach. “Mrs. Cavierti, I appreciate what a terrible tragedy it was for you to lose your husband, but I just need to ask one or two questions.”

  “Need? Fuck you and your need. Is that clear enough for you?” She hung up.

  Well, that could have played out better. The problem with fishing is that sometimes it was hard to lure the fish up to the boat. He redialed.

  “Hello?” Her tone didn’t sound too auspicious.

  “Mrs. Cavierti? I’m so sorry I have to keep disturbing you,” he began anew.

  “I don’t discuss Jim with anyone.” She was going to hang up.

  “We have information that Jim’s death may have not been an accident,” Steven declared. Maybe that would capture her interest.

  It did. “Who did you say this was again?”

  “Andy Tern. We’re looking into Jim’s accident on behalf of one of our clients, who believes that Jim might have been murdered,” Steven tried again.

  “Sherlock fucking Holmes, huh? Well I told you, I don’t talk to anyone about Jim.” Her voice had developed a definite whine, and Steven realized that she’d been drinking – she had a little slur going on.

  “Mrs. Cavierti, don’t you want to help us get to the bottom of Jim’s death?”

  “Ha!” she cried. “That’s rich. That shit-rat was banging every stripper between here and Atlantic City – and I want to help an investigation? Here, let me help you out. Go fuck yourself.” She hung up again.

  In New Jersey, Patricia Cavierti glared at the phone for a minute, and then dialed a number that never received inbound calls. “Someone just called and they’re looking into Jimmy’s accident. Just thought you should know. Yes. Andy Tern, attorney. You’re welcome.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After running a few housekeeping errands to pick up necessities such as deodorant and toothpaste, Steven returned to his motel room, and again his new image mocked him as he walked past the mirror that framed the hallway entrance. He looked nothing like he remembered. If someone had been given his description or a photograph they could have stood next to him in an elevator and never known he was the same person. That gave him considerable comfort as he pondered his next move.

  He calculated how long he could hang out in a fleabag motel in the middle of Carlsbad before he went bug-fuck crazy. Not very long. Steven needed to do something to get to the bottom of whatever was being perpetrated – to take action. Being stuck in a twelve by fourteen room was not doing a lot to improve his perspective. But at least he was still alive. That was more than he could say for Todd, or Peter.

  Shit, he’d spaced on calling Penny. He quickly dialed the number.

  “Hey Penny. How did the day go? Doing any better?” Steven asked.

  “I stood in front of his office door for must have been an hour, and couldn’t stop crying. He was so determined to keep working – had such pride in his skill. And now he’s gone. It just breaks my heart,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. Medicated. “I found a file that had your name on it, on a Post-it. It looked like the last thing he was working on. Do you want me to send it to you?”

  Holy shit. Maybe it had to do with his death. “Penny, I’m going to give you the address of an attorney who’ll hold the file for me. He’s a good man.” He gave her Stan’s office address.

  “Okay. I’ll overnight it to him for Monday delivery. Peter would have wanted you to have it, if your name was on it.”

  “How are you holding up?” He knew he’d already asked that, but wanted more reassurance.

  “As well as can be expected. Some friends are coming over tonight to keep me company, and the doctor gave me some horse pills to help me through this. I’ll live. I just want to get through the service. That’s the next thing.” She was fading as she spoke.

  “Penny, I’ll come out there as soon as I can. You and Peter, well, you were like parents to me…are. As soon as I get this mess cleared up I’ll be there – and I’ll tell you everything that happened.”

  I killed your husband with my hubris and carelessness. That conversation could probably
wait awhile.

  “I know you will. I’m going to go to the shipping place right now before I forget. These stupid pills knock me out a little. Goodbye, mister Rich...goodbye, and know my prayers are with you, whatever happens.”

  “And mine with you,” Steven promised softly as he hung up the phone.

  He considered what a frail construct a life was. Not the physical form, which was certainly that, but rather the accumulations and relationships people collected as they moved through the process of living. Then came the day when the bits of carbon and salt and water lost the spark of energy animating them, and all that remained were the memories in the minds of those left behind – and a few meager possessions.

  Peter had been a large man, a full-of-enthusiasm, vibrant tower of a man. And now what was left of him? A house in Florida, some papers, clothes, and the people he’d affected during his existence. The world kept turning, not even pausing for an instant as he departed the planet.

  Party over, just like that.

  Focal Point: Chapter 6

  The next morning, Steven went down to the usual Starbucks and logged on for his ritual Allied stock check. No trading.

  God, of course not. It was Saturday. Duh.

  He switched to his Group, where he chatted with Pogo about how to enable IP masking while on his Blackberry. Gordo suggested he create a new e-mail account for any ongoing correspondence because he had something amusing to send him once he was registered. Steven took a few minutes out from the chat and went to Hotmail to create a new Avalons_dad e-mail. Within a few minutes of posting this new e-mail address to the Group he had mail. He opened the message to find an article from yesterday’s Orange County Register describing the fire on Serendipity, which ended with the sobering news that the owner was killed in the blaze. The word was official. He felt happy about this small reward, which promised to end the trail of pursuit – hopefully. Clean slates and all. He wondered how many people ever got the opportunity to completely reinvent themselves: who they were going to be; where – and how – they were going to live; what they would do; and even what their name was. It seemed like a completely liberating experience, and yet it seemed daunting; a blank canvas required far more effort than an almost completed work. It begged the question: what did Steven want to be when he grew up?

  Ya got me there, he mused. Right now he’d settle for being alive.

  He disconnected, then finished his drink in preparation for the trip to Beverly Hills. He had a solid two hours or more each direction, so might as well hit it.

  The little Mazda hummed its way along on the freeway; the A/C worked well enough to dispel the worst of the heat, so the roads were no more unpleasant in the truck than in the Porsche – which is to say terrible.

  Steven was relieved to be able to conclude his business with the watch merchant in Beverly Hills without too much drama – after haggling he got $30,500 for the Patek. Less than he’d hoped for, but he was hardly in a position to dictate terms. And even if the regrettable interaction had been strained, his cash position had radically improved, at least.

  He threw the duffel in the front seat, started the engine and pulled onto the highway, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Maybach piloted by an Asian woman wearing a sweat suit, and with a cell phone stuck to her ear. You had to love L.A. He left the Rodeo Drive area and drove west towards Melrose and UCLA. After parking in a back street, Steven sought out an eyeglass store where he scanned the diverse selection; trying on a number of pairs of frames until he found some that altered his appearance significantly. Tortoiseshell Euro-style unisex glasses he thought looked suspiciously like reading glasses available at the drug store for $8, but with a green hue across the top of the brown frames. Of course, these had clear non-prescription lenses, so they were more practical for his purposes. And only $195. A bargain, really – and garish enough to overshadow the face behind them; so they suited his purpose perfectly.

  He took them up to the girl at the counter. “I’ll take these,” Steven said.

  The girl nodded. “Okay, do you have your prescription?”

  “No prescription. I just want the frames with the lenses as is.” Steven got a weird look from her. “It’s for a play I’m in,” he added, inflating his chest for effect.

  “I see.” It all made sense. Another actor.

  After a stop and go trek down the 405 freeway he was back in Carlsbad by 5:00. He sat in the motel, intending to relax but within a few minutes felt he was going stir crazy, so he drove to a small dojo he’d seen on PCH, and after a short negotiation twenty dollars bought him the room for an hour.

  He worked through the physical mantra of positions and strikes, then executed his kicks, blocks and jabs – mutating from Karate to Kung Fu to Jeet Kwon Do with increasing rapidity and astonishing fluidity. He finished off by winding down with a series of stretches. The owner of the facility, suitably impressed, bowed to Steven as he paid for the hour. Steven returned the bow respectfully.

  No matter where in the world you went, there was a universal appreciation for the skills he’d cultivated, and the nearest dojo was always where those who understood could be found. Kindreds of sorts. A brotherhood of skill. He was comfortable in and loved that world. It was honest and uncomplicated. He could use a little more of that at the moment.

  His years of early martial arts training had served him well in the military. The Marines had tried to convince him to stay in after his four-year stint was up. He’d been brutally effective on several seek-and-destroy missions in the Gulf, notably when his team had been ambushed. Things had gotten ugly and degenerated to hand-to-hand fighting in a small village near the Kuwaiti border; where he’d proved devastatingly proficient. But somewhere during the process Steven discovered he detested killing, so he’d politely declined the offer. He kept his practice to sparring and working out for the love of the art rather than for the practical applications of the skills he’d perfected.

  Steven finished up his day at, surprise, Starbucks, armed with his laptop. Nothing much to report, all quiet on the boards. He decided to send an e-mail to Peter’s buddy in Canada.

  [Cliff. I’m a very close friend and associate of Peter Valentine. He gave me your info and advised that I contact you. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Peter was killed several nights ago in a hit-and-run accident. I’m picking up the pieces and continuing the investigation he was pursuing into the activities of Nicholas Griffen. Please contact me at your convenience with a telephone number and the best time to reach you so we can discuss how best to proceed. Steven Cross]

  He figured he might as well start using the new moniker. That was his name now. Steven Cross. Dr. Steven Cross. All things considered, he actually liked the sound of it. That was one of the few positives to arise from his situation so far.

  Focal Point: Chapter 7

  After a quiet Sunday, Monday arrived quickly. When he checked his e-mail, he had a message from Spyder:

  [Bowman – I thought about this over the weekend. You need to get out of the country pronto. It’s just a matter of time till they ID the boat guy and discover that wasn’t you. Use your window of time intelligently. Get across the border ASAP. All hell will break loose once you’re found out as being alive. HS will be back on the trail. Now’s your time. Spyder]

  Steven had been thinking much the same thing. But he couldn’t really leave and go anywhere until he had his new passport.

  [I agree. Have to wait till new papers done. End of week.]

  Gordo popped online with a message:

  [Any idea where you’ll be going? – Gordo]

  Steven didn’t really have a clue.

  [Beats me. Probably Mexico first, then it’s a wild card.]

  Spyder fired back at him:

  [My advice is walk across the border. Don’t drive, Bowman. Tijuana airport’s international, and you can also get to central Mexico from there. To really disappear from everyone’s screens, I recommend Central America or Cuba. Cuba’s better due to no U.S.
diplomatic relations. But it has lousy infrastructure and sketchy internet. Frigging commies. Spyder]

  Steven considered the advice.

  [I’ll keep you all posted on what the plans are as soon as I know something.]

  He logged off as Bowman and called Stan, who confirmed that a package had arrived. They arranged to rendezvous in twenty minutes at the original café they’d met at before, across from the big hotel. Steven lugged his bag and laptop to the truck and made his way to meet Stan.

  Stan recognized him straight off this time, and after shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries he handed Steven a manila envelope and slipped him a platinum credit card in the name of Prosperous Moon Trading Corporation, with Steven Cross stamped on it.

  “I’d start practicing an illegible signature for Steven Cross,” Stan advised.

  “Steven Cross. I like it. I feel awed and honored to be so trusted by Prosperous Moon Trading,” Steven declared.

  “The card has a fifty grand limit on it and the bills will automatically be paid monthly. I would still use cash as often as possible for any travel just to be safe. But now you can withdraw money at any ATM in the world – and the card’s in the company name, so you won’t show up on a computer.” Stan had thought of everything, and then some. “Try to keep your expenditures to under fifty grand per month, would you?”

  “You ask a lot. How am I supposed to live in the lavish manner I’ve become accustomed to at the Best Western Carlsbad on less than a fifty thousand a month?” Steven inquired innocently.

  Stan peered at Steven over his spectacles before making the obvious decision to ignore his jabs. “The passport should be here Thursday. It’s being sent over by diplomatic pouch to the consulate in LA and then couriered to me that afternoon, if we’re lucky,” he explained. “Your motel is paid through Friday. Let me know if you want to extend it longer; it’s not a problem. Any ideas on what you’ll do next?”