“Wow.”
Jude didn’t know what else to say. It seemed like an absolutely momentous story at the time, but it now seemed ridiculously inane, trite, and irrelevant. Unless he offered more detail, it was likely to remain the latter.
“Jude, listen. I’m going to help you out with that truck of yours. I have a job for you, um, a couple of buddies and me, have a job for you. How busy are you in the next few days?”
It was Jude’s turn to smile wryly. “I never called that guy at Locust Valley. If he has lots of friends, I may not have any jobs for a long time!”
Ted looked kindly at Jude. “It’s okay, I’m going to help you out. A friend of mine is willing to pay you way too much money for a move, but it’s a bit of a haul.” He grinned. “Is that the term?”
Jude smiled, grateful for his suddenly glamorized role. “Haul? Yes!”
“Great. I need you to do me a favor, another one. You know, after saving my life.”
“I didn’t . . .”
Ted ignored the comment and instead cast his eyes around the restaurant. “Look at this place, Jude!”
The diner was filling up with all kinds of New York types and lots of tourists who had come to experience what they’d been told is the best diner in New York. This diner, however, like the worst diner in New York, serves the same food, delivered by the same Tyson trucks, cooked in the same Tyson grease, and served by caricatures of the people who are supposed to serve in NY diners. The waitresses were middle aged, full-framed, with perfectly arranged Hassidic-wig-style hair, bursting bust lines that were clearly enhanced by huge cheap bras, large, solid thighs that descended downwards towards Reebok shoes. They were wrapped in imperfect skin, and they all saw the world through remarkably kind eyes.
The waiters were heavy, dark, and tough looking, with tattooed arms as thick as thighs, and stubby fingers as strong as pickle jar lids. They looked like aging Greek sailors who came to shore and then couldn’t find their way back to their boats, and instead wandered inland and got lost around 51st Street.
Suddenly, the canned music stopped, and movement around the little makeshift stage made it apparent that the staff was preparing for some kind of a singsong, or sing-along, or other sing-thing that Ted wouldn’t want to endure under the circumstances. He got down to business.
“Listen, Jude, I’m going to have to go soon. I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars to drive my friend Tom to Nashville . . . to make a delivery . . . to his old neighborhood.”
Jude looked at Ted in complete disbelief. Ted, interested only in accomplishing his goal, hadn’t any idea as to what might have triggered Jude’s unease. A moment of reflection, though, brought it to light.
“Right. Look, Jude, I feel like you were pretty heroic that night.”
“I didn’t do anything! We just walked out together and . . .”
“And so I want to help you out. I believe in your novel, and I want you to write it. Do this for me, and this payment will give you some time. You won’t be able to write it at Fabergé Restaurant of course, but . . .,” he looked around. “Look! That guy over there is eating an omelet. Maybe you could write it here, and ask to be seated near people who order eggs!”
“I cannot, well, I—”
“Great.” Ted, despite his humble origins, was also used to getting what he asked for. “Here is,” he reached back into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted out a pile of bills. “Okay, this is $1,700, it should be enough to get your truck towed. Call me with the repair cost, and you have to tell them that you also want a tune up. Do they do tune-ups on moving trucks?”
“Yah, sure but—”
“Great. Get a tune-up, have them call me, I’ll pay for it on the phone. Tell them that you have a really big job, so it needs to be in good order. Have them check, you know, the tires, the, um, the . . .” He smiled. “Have them check whatever they normally have to check, and tell them to fix whatever needs fixing. You have my number.” He pushed the bills towards Jude. “Would you mind paying for all this? I have tons of stuff to do.”
“All this” was Jude’s one cup of coffee. “Sure,” he muttered. He was in a state of rather blissed-out shock.
Ted rose to leave.
“I really appreciate this, Jude. Oh, and if you don’t mind, my friend is going to join you for the ride, do you think that would be okay? Sorry, I don’t think I mentioned that. How long does it take to drive there?”
“Nashville? From here? It’s probably twenty hours, plus stops.” Jude was accustomed to people’s profound ignorance about road distances in America.
“Twenty hours! Jesus, okay, let me ask him. I’ll call you,” he said, as he moved towards the exit. “Thanks, Jude, thanks!”
Chapter 7
When Ted returned to the factory-warehouse, he was greeted by boisterous activity. The printing machines had been purring, with regular corrections, tune-ups, and calibrations, ever since the demise of Fabergé Restaurant. In recent days activity had shifted towards the rear doors of the warehouse, where state-of-the-art, electronically guided guillotines had been set up for the tedious and complex task of cutting the sheets of “currency wall coverings” into bills.
This shift had of course necessitated the erection of a large barrier separating the production from the cutting, so that undesirable questions about why wallpaper was being cut into such small pieces would be avoided. Those charged with the task of dividing up billions of dollars of cash into proper sizes had been handpicked from the existing workforce for their discretion, qualifications, and, moreover, their disconnect from the host country, a disconnect measured by the relative absence of linguistic skills and manifest lack of connection to American culture. Furthermore, in order to segregate the workers from the New York Chinese community, Tom had arranged for them to stay in the sprawling New York Hotel, a gargantuan structure that had once been the toast of the town, with its high-quality restaurant, bowling alleys, shops, and services. For the past decades, it has slowly become a bargain for tourists, and then a bit of an embarrassment. But management was happy to have it revitalized, filled with happy guests who had previously occupied slum-like quarters in the East Bronx, prior to their having been liberated by the Currency Corporation.
With the shift in production towards cutting, and eventual distribution, Ted communicated to those assigned to the new work that their hours would be different from the rest of the workforce, and that it was best that they relocate to a hotel closer to the factory. The workers were thus separated from coworkers-turned—friends, whom they’d now seldom saw, in the hope, as far as Tom, Ted, and Steve were concerned, that there’d be a minimum of discussion about their new jobs. None of this was long-term, since they knew very well that such an operation couldn’t possibly last. But they were now down to the last three weeks before the election, and the last two weeks before the rare earth options were called in. As long as nothing untoward occurred, they could probably make it into the offices of the Department of the Treasury for their long-anticipated sit-down. From that point onwards, there’d be a lot of negotiating to do, and they wanted to engage in it when their bargaining power was at its height.
Ted strolled through the entrance area of the factory, and then moved to the cordoned-off “office area,” with its makeshift cubicles that had been divided up according to the task discussed therein. Most of this area was taken up by a rather wonky conference room, a ceilingless rectangle constructed of plastic walls that were suspended from the ceiling with small cables, lending a look of a theatre set that was prepared for this act, and at the same time ready to be totally transformed for the next. The current scene was furnished with a completely incongruous antique table from Steve’s collection of Philippine furniture, and four gorgeous chairs that looked as though they belonged in Versailles rather than to the cement floor of a noisy, Lower East Side warehouse.
As expected, Tom and Steve were seated, in intense conversation. What wasn’t to be expected was the presence of a w
oman with clear but radiant skin, long tussles of soft, golden hair, dark-green eyes, and a bewitching smile that revealed disarmingly perfect teeth. She was remarkably beautiful. She seemed comfortable amidst the din and chaos of this place. She was seated very near to Tom, upon whose arm she rested her left hand, confidently. She, was Jessica.
“Holy shit!” blurted out Ted and immediately went to her side. “You have come back for me! Tom, thanks for saving her for me, you can go now.”
Jess smiled rather uncertainly.
“Jess, this is Ted. Ignore every second word he says, and he may begin to make sense.”
Ted calculated for just a moment. “Jess. Hmmm, word. I, word. Am pajamas. Thrilled pancakes. That balloons. Tom loser. Has thankfully. Brought yes! You, you. To for. Me, me.” He paused for a second, calculating: “We us can will go leave now immediately.”
Jess smiled, and the entire sphere surrounding her seemed to illuminate. “Nice to meet you, Ted.” She paused. “I’ve actually seen you before.”
Ted didn’t miss a beat. “I know, we were engaged to be married before I was kidnapped by these bozos in order to help and save this sorry world.”
He looked around at Tom and Steve and then directly into the very depths of her eyes, as though to submerge himself in the memory of this moment with her. “I think that this time my answer is yes, so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Jessica smiled again. “You’ve been to Fabergé Restaurant.”
“Yah, well, I used to go there. I didn’t think it would land up poached, or scrambled, or whatever it turned into.”
“It fulfilled its mission, followed its fate. John had always told me that it would fall, just like the Romanov family. I didn’t realize that he was speaking literally.”
“John? John-the-Owner? I knew him!” Ted examined her closer still, to assess her relation to this once-revered institution. “But you escaped! Did he?”
“I escaped, but then so did the czar’s mother.”
“Touché!” blurted out Tom. Ted ignored him.
“But no,” she continued, “not really. None of us escaped. I worked in the kitchen, and was there from its inception. Now that it has cracked, I think the rest of us have as well.”
“And John? The owner, John?”
“Especially John. After the collapse, he drove me to Long Beach, on Long Island, and parked his car right on the sand. We just sat there, with the convertible down, and watched the waves. I was convinced he was just going to start the car, rev it up, and drive us into the depths of the sound.”
“I’m really glad he didn’t, how would we get married?” Ted looked completely convinced by his own fantasy. “Although,” he paused, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a mermaid.”
“He is definitely a mermaid,” interjected Steve. “He is a gay mermaid with a fish skin pulled over his, well, you know, that tiny part of him.”
Jessica had spent enough time in the kitchen to hold up this kind of banter all evening, and do so while churning out recipes fit for the most finicky of kings.
Tom moved closer to Jessica, and in an act of possession, but also urgency, reached around her body and held her opposite arm with his large hand as if to say “Okay. We are now past the banter, it’s time to speak seriously.”
“Ted,” Tom began, “I don’t know what the fuck took you so long, or where the fuck you’ve been. Whatever. I want you to meet Jessica, because I need you to sign some papers with her.”
“Great!” exclaimed Ted. “I will, for sure. Steve, do you have the rings?” Steve looked his usual calm and cold self.
“To suspend you from the ceiling so that I can whip you?” asked Steve.
“Don’t mind him, Jess, the “S” isn’t actually for Steve, it’s for Sadomasochism. Steve, you really need to find yourself a lover, I can’t be everything for you!”
Tom was the only one who remained cool, although he was rather on the verge of losing his temper. The reality was, they were now about to set forth the largest counterfeiting scheme ever devised, and alongside of that, they had arranged to corner rare earth metals that were absolutely essential to the continued existence of the manufactured goods that made this and many other worlds function. If their gamble was wrong, that is if they were wrong to think that no US government would risk the humiliation heaped upon them by three upstanding citizens who had offered an unprecedented stimulus plan to the most needy, and to a large enough number of people to alter a federal election, then they were living their last days of freedom. It was a good reason to seek humorous respite. It was also, in Tom’s sense, a good reason to preempt failure and disaster.
“Ted, be serious,” said Tom. “You said that because all the options are on the Chinese market that we have nothing to fear from the feds, and that the Chinese have everything to gain from our holdings, as long as we keep playing ball with them. But I don’t want to be standing in treasury with my pockets filled with stock options, because if we don’t make it out of there, neither will the options. I have given everything to Jess, and I want you to do the same thing. You only hold 17 percent, but I want her to have all of it. Just in case.”
Ted paused and then looked at Jessica with a false-accusatory look. “Is this the prenup?” Jessica looked uncomfortable.
“Ted, it’s not going to make a fuck bit of difference, this paper is going to turn to dust, one way or another. We may as well protect ourselves from holding it when the time comes, in case they just pop on the handcuffs then and there.”
This had always been a fear, for all of them. This was also part of the thrill, and part of the risk. Three wealthy men walk into the US Treasury claiming to have put into circulation enough billions to affect the economy, and have promised to spill the beans one week before the immanent reelection of the incumbent, which would almost certainly bring down his government. At the same time, and by way of further guarantee, they had also acted, entirely legally, to purchase an unprecedented quantity of stock options on rare earth commodities, options that were now worth untold billions. Those options were controlled by two of the three people involved in the counterfeiting. What would happen if the feds decided to not negotiate? What if they just arrested the three of them? This would be a great pre-election coup. And yet, it seemed unlikely, since it would be a surefire method of losing the election because it could appear as though this whole disastrous scheme had been happening for months, maybe years, under the very nose of the sitting government.
Furthermore, and perhaps most importantly, such a fiscal trip-up would also sadden a whole lot of nice people who were suddenly sitting on a lot of cash that was helpful for feeding, clothing, and housing disenfranchised people. And a lot of those people, in fact a vast majority of them, could vote, even if they didn’t traditionally do so. This time, though, they would probably heed the call to vote if they were asked to by those benevolent gentlemen who had given them and their communities bags of money. If the incumbent cooperated, he could be sitting on his own voter gold mine. On the other hand, if the incumbent arrested these three heroes, not only would they not vote, but they might, they just might, rise up. And who knew where such an insurrection might lead. What Tom was offering now was a solution to another problem that they had barely considered.
“I don’t want to lose the whole fucking thing,” began Tom. “Jail, the house, the . . .,” he looked over at Jess, “the whole fucking thing. I don’t want to, and we don’t have to.” He spoke as though he was addressing a world far beyond the noise of this factory. “We always said that this was for eternity, or at least for this generation.”
It was hard to know if Tom was talking now to Jessica, or to the promise that the three men had made each other, all those years ago, about their eventual objectives. “If they slap on the fucking cuffs and drag us out of there, well, we thought of that.” He paused. “But you saw them with Snowden and Assange and the whole bunch of them. We are now sitting on a fucking fortune, maybe not for us, but . . .” He
looked ever-more intensely at Jessica. “Unless,” said Tom, “we act now. Legally. We legally give everything to Jess. She is not involved, and is in no way part of this. I am giving her my options, because she’s my girlfriend, and I fear for my future, and wish to secure hers. I’m asking you to do the same thing, because we’re in this together, and rather than give it to someone else, I’d like to consolidate it into her hands.”
Ted turned to Jess. “Do you want it?”
“I know nothing. All I know is that Tom is a hero, and that you are all heroes. I want to continue this. If I have to go at it alone with all this, I’ll just give it all to the cause.”
“And the cause being?”
She opened wide her soft eyes, breathed the air that engulfs this entire planet, and stared forth towards the distant eternity. Therein echoed as much silence as could be mustered in a printing and cutting factory.
Ted looked into Jess’s eyes. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, a desirable woman, a girlfriend, his dream partner, an unrealizable fantasy. Jess was the oceans and the seas, the lakes and the streams, the mountains, the grass, the tall trees, the rainfall, the dew upon the grass in the early morning.
“Yah. Yes. Sure.” Ted joined the three of them at the table. “Yes, I will give it all to her.”
Ted stared into Jess’s eyes and uttered those words as though in some strange trance, as though these words, inconceivable but a few minutes prior, were as unmistakable as the sweet scent of freshly cut hay wafting through gloriously secluded farmland on a warm, sunny day. Ted spoke those words to his friends, but moreover he spoke those words to Jessica, and in his mind’s eye he saw her and him together, hand in hand from a lovely country home on this idyllic farmland, strolling towards a nearby barn, therein to amass a few fresh eggs for this morning’s breakfast after a feast of sensual pleasure created and forever recalled in the passion of love.
“Yes,” he repeated, Molly Bloom-like, as though in recollection of giving in to her, willingly. He looked around at his friends, at Tom, at Steve, and then back to Jess.
Hatched Page 28
