Clyde wrapped her arms around her weeping friend. Mira mumbled something about “Ike.” Then they stood there without saying a word. They stood for a long time, while Clyde’s thoughts wandered from worry to worry, then from sorrow to sorrow, then from anger to anger.
She worried about her friends, because she had brought Baedes’s suspicions down upon them. She worried about Mira, because Baedes thought Mira was at the center of a conspiracy against him. She worried about herself, because she didn’t want to get caught. And she worried, because she knew that if she ever wanted to turn herself in, the easiest way would be simply to tell her beloved, her own husband. And after Ted got over his rage at what she had done, and called the feds to take her away at gunpoint, he would represent her and defend her in court, with a passion borne out of love. But she worried, most of all, because all the clever legal defenses in the world could not repair the damage this will have done to their relationship.
She sorrowed at how powerless she was, and how helpless. She knew she had acted with the best of intentions. But intentions didn’t mean a thing if all she accomplished was to bring pain upon those she loved. She sorrowed for Mira and for her pain. She sorrowed that she could do nothing to help, because Mira felt a longing of the heart, which could only be solved by Mira’s heart itself. She sorrowed for Hashim Osama and his family, innocents caught in the crossfire of an ugly political battle. Who said politics was only about words? Words have consequences.
And was that her fault? What had she ever done to Hashim, or to Jane, or to Mira? Clyde knew three things about being abused, and the first was that the victim blames herself for the abuse, even though it’s the abuser’s fault. And Clyde was not the one toting a gun, waving it in people’s faces, disrupting the lives of innocent families, or hurting her friends.
In her mind, Clyde heard the words, “See what you made me do?” They sounded as loudly as if they had been spoken.
Rage began to boil in Clyde’s heart, because she had only fought an evil. Her attacker’s free choice made him hurt her. She had no obligation to feel anything but hate and revulsion for him. It was not her fault, and it was wrong for him to blame her for any of this.
Clyde was pissed at Mira, too. Because Mira had lost sight of the prize. Not only did Mira blame herself, she was letting her feelings compromise her judgment. Clyde wanted to snap Mira out of it.
“Hey, you!” Clyde barked. The words did not come out tenderly and sweet, as they did when Clydene said them.
Mira had stopped crying, but was still resting her head on Clyde’s shoulder, like a little girl cuddling up to her mother. Now, Mira looked up, and Clyde could see fear in her eyes.
Clyde softened her voice and tried again. “Hey, you.” Then as she stared into Mira’s sad, puppy-dog eyes, she forgot what she was mad about.
“Come in and sit down,” Clyde said.
A man stood in the doorway of his townhouse. He seemed to be observing the crowd of children gathering in the lot. In reality there was only one child he was interested in, the 12-year-old boy sitting on the stair of the neighbor’s apartment. The man, whose name was Damian, noticed that the boy too was only watching the commotion. But Damian kept an eye on him nonetheless to make sure he didn’t get too close.
The children crowded in as though they were the electrons of a giant atom, their autumn coats pressing in on each other as they shifted in and out, back and forth, up and down, around a central nucleus, each one straining to see what was happening inside. Occasionally, a catcall or a collective cheer interrupted the din, but mostly they made a steady noise of indistinct voices. It looked like just a assembly of middle school students getting ready for a neighborhood, after-school ball game. But if you were paying attention, you could tell that the gathering was more serious. Too many kids. Too loud a din. Too focused on the action at the nucleus of the atom.
Someone must have been paying attention, because the disturbance lasted only a few minutes. A new kid joined the crowd. Then, suddenly, a girl broke free from the mass of bodies and shot out across the parking lot, like a subatomic particle escaping the atom’s nucleus. The rest of the atom immediately split, one half toward Summer Street, the other toward Lyman Avenue. Three seconds later, police officers swooped down upon the scene.
The blonde policewoman, tall and athletic, navy jacket and pants, with a black leather belt and an official-looking insignia on her badge, hair tightly wrapped in a bun, approached the 12-year-old boy and two of his friends, who were now standing and talking. Damian stood back, but strained to hear the conversation between her and the boys. The 12-year-old boy motioned in Damian’s direction, and the policewoman glanced over. That was more than he could take. He stepped down from his perch and ambled toward the boys and their interlocutor. The cold air bit at his hands, but he dared not warm them in his pockets, because he preferred to leave them in plain sight.
As he approached, Damian heard part of the conversation.
“I know one,” the 12-year-old boy said with a thick, Hispanic accent. “Her name is Kay. She ran over there.” The boy pointed in the direction the girl had run.
“Is that what all of you saw?”
One of the other kids said, “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t see much. We just got here. But I saw Kay running away.”
She turned to Damian. “And you were over there?” She pointed to their apartment.
“Yes.” Damian spoke perfect, American English. “I was primarily watching my son there”—he indicated the 12-year-old boy—“you know, to make sure he wasn’t involved in it.”
“Okay.” She asked the boy, “Do you know where this girl lives?”
He paused.
Damian gave him the “Yes, it’s okay” look and nodded slightly.
“Yeah. I think she went home.”
“Which apartment does she live in?”
“She lives down there.” The boy pointed down the street.
“Do you know what number?”
“Uh. I think it’s… next to the corner, not Summer Street, on the next street.”
“Can you show me?”
“Yeah.”
Another cop approached.
“Hold on a second,” the policewoman said, and she had a quick conversation with the other cop. Damian couldn’t hear any of what they said, until she said, “No. They’re witnesses. He’s a witness,” indicating the boy; “he’s a witness,” indicating Damian. “But they were about to…” and her voice trailed off again.
When she was done talking to the other cop, she said, “Okay. You can show me where she lives now.”
Damian accompanied the 12-year-old boy as they showed the cop where Kay lived. Kay was one of those unfortunate kids whose father didn’t live with her and whose mother didn’t care about her. She was about 12, like Damian’s boy. The two children went to the same school. She and her friends had been known to pick on the younger kids, and police reports had been filed by several parents. Kay also made up her face and dressed like a hooker, even at the age of 12. It was well known in the neighborhood that she slept around. Once, she was even caught having sex in a public place with a young, teenage boy. Damian and his wife had forbidden their kids from hanging around with Kay or with any of her friends.
While they were walking, the policewoman got a call on her walkie-talkie. She took it, then she said to Damian, “You go ahead I’ll catch up.”
They did, and once they were out of earshot, Damian asked the boy, “How are you doing?”
“Okay. I don’t think Kay wanted to fight. She was being bullied by some other kids.”
“Serves her right,” Damian said.
“She’s not as bad a kid as you think she is.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Clydene was honestly looking forward to meeting Jane for lunch, because Jane was the only person in the world she could talk openly with. Over the past week, Clyde had been receiving ongoing, automated reports from the Pyx virus on Baedes’s unofficial files, as well as official files, emails, and other files. At first, Clyde didn’t believe how much junk email was shuffled around the Abe’s Turn governmental network. But then she remembered that it was essentially like any big corporation. Clyde desired to talk to someone about what she was doing. She wanted to mull it over with another human being. Normally, she would talk with Mira, but in this case Mira could not know, because knowing that Baedes was on the warpath would devastate Mira. So Clydene looked forward to her lunch with Jane, the only person who knew about Pyx.
Clyde arrived at the restaurant early. She had driven all the way out to Stafford Springs so that no one would recognize her, though she didn’t know why, or at least couldn’t put it into words. And she chose a restaurant that served real food that she could palate. Having parked her blue Camry, she stood at the entrance and squinted out across the lot. Even though the sun was still bright, the air was beginning to get colder, a gentle reminder that it was no longer Summer. Occasionally, a chill breeze blew her fiery red hair into her eyes. She brushed it back with her hand. And whenever a passerby entered the restaurant, she caught a whiff of garlic and fresh Italian bread from inside. Finally, Clyde noticed Jane, with genuine happiness at the sight of her.
Inside, a waitress led them to a nondescript booth somewhere within the maze of tables. The overhead speakers resonated with a classic soft-rock love song. At a nearby table a good-looking young man and woman ate ravioli from the same plate while they made goo-goo eyes at each other. Clyde sighed. She would always be a romantic at heart.
“Remember that?” Jane asked, nudging her eyes in their direction.
“Romance? Yeah, I guess so,” Clyde said. “I don’t know. Being married is different, but I wouldn’t say being single was any better.” All Clydene could remember about her life before Ted was the loneliness and the mood swings.
“You don’t have kids.”
“No.”
“Children change everything.” Jane gazed longingly at the lovebirds. “I remember that, but I don’t remember the last time I looked at Marvin like that.”
Clyde suddenly realized she was staring at the lovebirds, and she snapped her head back. The lovebirds didn’t seem to notice either way.
Jane continued. “They become your whole life.” Her voice became serious. “This is kind of heavy, isn’t it?”
“A little,” Clyde said.
“Guess what happened at work? They scheduled me to work tomorrow afternoon, and I have to be home to pick up the boys from the bus after school. That’s the way it is every day. They don’t seem to get it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I told them I had to leave at 2, no matter what the schedule said,” Jane stated matter-of-factly. “They can fire me if they want, but you have to have your priorities straight.”
“Couldn’t you leave them with someone for a few hours until you got back? Maybe a neighbor—“ The words left Clydene’s mouth before she could stop them. “Uh, I mean… Uh…“
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” In some ways, Jane was a thick-skinned broad. “But if I was going to leave them with someone else so I could work, I might as well let someone else raise them. Because that’s what I’d be doing anyways.”
“I can understand that.” Clyde did understand, even though she didn’t have children of her own. Her own submerged maternal instinct peeked out occasionally from within her. She and Ted had no kids not because they didn’t want kids. It just never seemed to be the right time. For a moment, Clyde realized that her biological clock was ticking away, and she felt just a little bit empty and a little bit envious of Jane.
“I’d love to have a job like yours,” Jane said. “Work at home. I could have the kids home with me and earn money at the same time.”
“Yeah, but you’d have the same problem.” Clyde thought of all the times she had neglected Ted because she was working on a project. “You’d have to set aside time for them, or you’d end up ignoring them.”
“We should probably figure out what we want to eat.” Jane picked up a menu. “I’ve never been here before. What’s good on the menu?”
“The rosemary chicken luncheon special looks good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. With a glass of the house Pinot Grigio.”
“A glass of what?”
Clyde looked up over the top of her menu at Jane’s face. “White wine.”
“Oh.” Jane returned to her menu.
“Sorry about that,” Clyde said. “One of my hobbies is gourmet cooking. And part of that is being a wine snob.”
Clyde returned to her menu. She was eying the shrimp primavera, but the talk about rosemary chicken made her want that, too.
“Fatima is probably back in Pakistan by now,” Jane said apropos of nothing.
Clyde knew, there was no “probably” about it.
Jane continued. “What can we do to help?”
Clyde set down her menu. Jane was staring across the table at her. “To help Fatima?”
“To stop this kind of thing from happening again.” Jane whispered. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared.”
“Why? You’re not Pakistani?”
“Yeah, but they were really sweet people. They never hurt anyone else. And they— If it could happen to them, it could happen to any of us. I don’t want my kids to go through that.”
“This is true,” Clyde said.
“So just let me know. I know you follow that whole thing.”
Clydene’s mind suddenly went blank. She had come prepared to chat about Baedes, longing to talk about it, and now that Jane had brought up the subject, Clyde didn’t have any practical answers.
“Who do you like for town council?” Jane asked, before Clyde could formulate a response.
“Me?” Clyde said. “I’m not voting for any of them.”
Michael ushered his guest down the green wall of the office cube farm. Other walls were blue, orange, yellow, and other colors, each colored wall identifying a known location in the otherwise indistinguishable maze of cubicles. Ergonomically calibrated artificial light beamed down from the high ceiling. All around them, computer keyboards clacked, and subdued voices melded in an indecipherable drone.
Michael loved the hustle and bustle of office life. It felt a little like being at a party, and he loved parties. He loved meeting people, being around people, talking to people. And he loved showing off to his friends and acquaintances.
Michael and his visitor stopped to examine one of the posters placarding the green wall.
“Yeah, I’m really proud of this one. This ad out-pulled our previous control by 70 percent!” Michael said. His baby blues beamed like little flashlights.
“You should become a freelance consultant, my friend.” The visitor’s dark skin and eyes betrayed his Hispanic descent, but his voice rang with the educated tones of a confident, wealthy executive. As he grinned, tiny crow’s-feet appeared at his temples, and his smile lines deepened. Wearing a clean, white polo shirt, he belonged on the golf course, not as an honored guest being conducted through one of the biggest ad agencies in the city.
“No thanks,” Michael said. “Not everyone is cut out to be an entrepreneur— No offense.”
“None taken.”
“At heart, I’m one of those creative types who’d rather leave running the business to someone else. Besides, in an organization this size, I get to talk to lots of interesting people I’d never get to meet otherwise.”
“Creative type? I thought you were the head of your department. A director?”
“Yes, Creative Director. But that’s still a creative position. I manage the project, make sure it gets done right. But other people handle the business end of things. It’s like being a film director, as opposed to a producer, if that makes sense.”
“Yes, it does.” The visitor nodded.
“And speaking of producers, here’s my boss.”
Another man approached, a nondescript, no-nonsense type with a fake smile. He wore a short, business-like haircut and a white, button-down shirt.
Michael turned to him. “Paul, this is a friend of mine, Joaquin Alvarez, but we call him Jay. Jay, Paul Cr—“
Paul interrupted him. “It’s good to meet you.” He reached out and shook the visitor’s hand. Then he said to Michael, “I didn’t know you were having a meeting today.”
“It’s nothing formal. I was just showing him around.”
“Excuse me,” he said to the visitor, and took Michael off to the side. He whispered, “Is this a potential client?’
“Yes,” Michael whispered back.
“Then you should have gone through me.”
“Relax,” Michael said in his normal speaking voice. “I’m not going to reveal anything top-secret. Because you know, I’m too smart for that. And we’re just talking preliminary, informal. Nothing set in stone.”
“Why don’t I join you then?” The manager had also returned to his normal speaking voice.
“Well…” Michael glanced back at Jay. “We had planned to meet— uh— sit down in my office, and I don’t know if there’s a conference room available.”
“I’ll check the schedule.” He headed back to his cubicle.
Michael returned to Jay, who was staring agape at Paul.
“If you want to escape, now’s the time,” Michael said in a humorous, hushed tone.
“Wow, you weren’t exaggerating, were you?” Jay said.
“Well you weren’t surprised, were you?”
“Hell, yes!” Jay checked himself and lowered his voice again. “I mean, it’s one thing to hear about— someone like that, another thing to experience him.”
Michael chuckled. “Really, he’s harmless, though.”
Jay faced Michael. “You know, you really could run your own business.”
Michael sneered with the left half of his face.
“Seriously,” Jay continued, “you’re good with people, and that’s the most important part of doing business. I mean, yes, there’s accounting and legal crap and plenty of paperwork. But you can hire people to take care of all that stuff, or take on a partner.”
“Well, that’s nice of you to say,” Michael politely intoned.
“And you wouldn’t have to deal with Señior Pointy-hair, anymore.”
Michael chuckled again. “But I like Pointy-hair. Every ad needs a villain, and where do you think I get inspiration for my best ones? Besides which, it’s fun to poke him. He’s like the Pillsbury Doughboy, if the Pillsbury Doughboy were a crack addict.”
A pause.
Michael took a breath. “That didn’t come out as funny as I thought it would.”
“No, I guess not,” Jay said.
The boss returned and ushered them to an empty conference room. As they sat, Jay explained his situation, more for Paul’s benefit than for Michael’s, because Michael already knew most of the background. Jay and his brother owned and ran a home heating oil business, J&D Heating Oil, in the town of Abe’s Turn. That’s how he and Michael knew each other, because Michael also lived and had contacts in Abe’s Turn, and they had met at a local Chamber of Commerce event.
“What I’m concerned about,” Jay said, “is this new competitor, World’s Best Heating. They recently started up in the area, and some of my customers are going with them, because they’re undercutting us. They must be losing money on the deal. Not unheard of, to dump lots of money in and undercut the competition, just to get established. They probably have mob investors backing the operation.”
Paul chuckled.
Jay continued. “Seriously, though, the owner of the company, Freddy Carrillo, his relatives have been associated with organized crime. I’m not worried about that, though. Mob bosses don’t open up one-horse home-heating outlets.
“In any case, this is a critical time in our annual cycle. The weather is getting colder, and people are thinking about preparing for winter and about high heating costs. That makes them likely to switch to a lower-priced offer. And after they switch, it’s going to be that much harder to get them back later in the season, even if WBH raises its rates.
“Personally, I wonder if they’re doing a bait and switch, luring new customers with rock-bottom prices, under-delivering on service, and then knowing that they’ll need to raise prices half-way through the winter. And probably will blame it on Iraq or something.”
“So you need to undercut their prices,” Paul said.
“No,” Michael said. “He needs to come up with a winning offer that springboards off his unique abilities. I have a few ideas—“
“But if people care about price, you have to cut your price.”
“But we can’t cut our prices,” Jay said.
“You have to find a way—“
Michael interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You don’t have to compete on price. And you don’t want to. That’s the worst thing you could do.”
Paul glared at him from across the table.
Michael ignored him. “You have a list of your customers right?”
“Yes,” Jay said.
“Of course you do. Otherwise, how could you deliver their oil and bill them? You can put together a direct mail campaign. That’s relatively inexpensive. Talk about the relationship you’ve had with them and the reliable service you’ve given.
“If they’re concerned about price, we can come up with creative offers that ease their fears, like a monthly plan.”
“Yes, we already offer something like that. We distribute the cost of the winter season over the whole year.”
“Exactly. We can market that as a way to manage winter heating costs. Or you could offer a guaranteed maximum price, a ceiling on the winter heating bills, even for those who didn’t lock in their rates last June. The price ceiling doesn’t even have to be low, just something to make customers feel better.
“Better yet, offer a premium plan that includes free emergency deliveries, or other free heating services, like repairs to their furnace. It’s like being on retainer.”
“That’s all well and good,” Paul said, “but—“
“Don’t stop me. I’m on a roll.
“You can talk about how you never leave a loyal customer in the cold. Remember that guy you told me about? He lost his job, and you kept deliveries coming to his family all through the winter, even though he couldn’t pay at the time? And then you billed them over the next year?”
Jay nodded.
“That’s one powerful story. You don’t even have to make any guarantees for a story like that to work.
“And you don’t have to offer special deals to just anyone. You can make these offers only to your best and and most loyal customers, because you know they won’t take advantage of you. Besides which, you want to reward them, which will just increase their loyalty. Or maybe you could offer special guarantees to your most loyal customers.
“And maybe to one or two new customers that they personally recommend.” Michael punctuated each word with a pointed finger. “That would be a good way to build your customer base. And use the revenue from the premium plans to pay for special introductory offers to new customers.”
Jay was grinning now.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Paul said. “We need to make sure we have the resources in the department.”
“Let me put together a proposal, then,” Michael said, “and we’ll allocate the resources.”
“But I don’t know if we can accept the liability for deals like that.”
Jay was clearly confused. “What liability?”
Michael interjected. “There’s no liability, Paul. He approves all the copy, and there’s an indemnity clause in the standard contract.”
“That doesn’t always cover the bases.”
“Besides which, we commonly do similar campaigns for other clients. This is no different.”
“It’s different because I haven’t approved it yet,” Paul said.
“Okay. So approve it!” Michael thought a moment. “What’s stopping you?”
“I need to see more first.”
“Fine, we’ll start on the campaign, but nothing goes to press without your approval.”
“That will do,” Paul eked out.
Jay stared straight through Michael’s eyes. “Business issues,” he said.
Michael chuckled at the thought that Jay was secretly trying to lure him away, right under his boss’s nose.
