P r o l o g u e

Spring, 1973

            Jones looked at the darkening sky and back at his worker. “Bernardo! Get the GM! Adelante! Adelante! Move it, you wetback wonder. Move!”

Lately, Jones’s anger had been fast to surface. He needed to get out of this little money-saving enterprise as soon as possible. The authorities were getting serious about such things. Next thing you know they’d be here nosing around. The thought made him edgy. He’d dump this place, get it off his back for good—then disappear for a while if he had to.

He watched Bernardo half-run, half-shuffle to the back of the lot to get the truck. This kid was the right one to bring over from his day crew. Never questioned anything. Couldn’t speak a word of English. Followed directions as if he were about to be beaten with a stick by his daddy back in Mexico.

And he needed money. For lunch breaks, Bernardo would bring out a tortilla, only half-filled with rice or beans, and sometimes, with nothing in it at all. Jones had seen the others give Bernardo cookies or bananas from their lunches. Furthermore, the kid acted desperate for overtime work. All these things made Jones feel like he owned Bernardo. He could do with him what he damn well wanted.

He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a small curved flask. Uncapping it, he threw it up to his lips and tossed his head back. “Wha—?” he muttered, bringing his head down again to stare at the flask. He had known there wasn’t much left, but only a drop or two? Shit! He recapped it and shoved it back in his pocket. This was the second one he’d finished off today. The one he kept in his car he’d polished off before noon. This brilliant idea to save money was getting him down. It took more and more liquor to get through these last days before it would be all over.

He put his hands on his hips, impatient that Bernardo was taking so long. He hated these peons who worked for him and he hated coming here each evening after his regular work. But, bye-bye. He could soon forget all of it forever. A little smile curled his lips. The gung-ho sucker from out of town was coming to look at the place next week, and Jones had to be ready for him.

Bernardo pulled up in the beat-up ’63 GM truck and poked his lean, anxious face out of the cab window for further instructions.

Jones pointed to the huge pit and felt a surge of rage. Why couldn’t Bernardo see what was to be done? “Allá!  Allá! You dim-witted oaf.” Jones felt better when he vented his anger out loud.

Bernardo pulled the truck up to the edge.

“Dump! Dump!” screamed Jones. He put his hand out flat in front of him and slowly tilted it up. Bernardo nodded. The back bed of the truck raised up at an angle and the contents slid out and down and disappeared. Bernardo returned the truck bed to its normal position and looked out at Jones for more instructions.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go. Go. Park it. Park-ay! Can’t you think? What’s done with an empty truck? Gawd, you’re a stupid brute. Bernardo Brute!”

Again Bernardo looked out from the rolled-down window, but this time bitterness had hardened his face. He pulled back on the hand brake, causing a series of grating noises, metal contacting metal. He turned off the engine. Throwing open the door, he jumped down with the keys in his hand and stuck out his jaw. “No soy un bruto.”

“Get your foreign ass back in that truck and park it in the back of the lot. En la back!” Jones whipped his arm a couple of times toward the back of the lot.

Bernardo didn’t move. “No soy un bruto. No hablo inglés mucho, pero no soy un bruto.” He threw the keys at Jones’s feet. “No work here mas. And...yo sé, señor. I know.”

Jones looked at the keys on the dirt and held back a new surge of anger. “Oh, ho! So you do understand English, eh? What is it that you know, Bernardo? What do you know?”

“No es legal.”

“What isn’t legal? Jones sneered. You’re what’s not legal.”

“Este.” Bernardo jerked his head backward toward the pit. “Mi money, señor.” He held out his hand.

Jones considered the situation. “Wait! Okay. Money. Sorry. Sorry. But will you please, por favor— ” Jones walked up to the gaping hole where Bernardo stood. “First, por favor, park the GM. Park-ay, for favor?” He again pointed to the far end of the lot.

Bernardo grudgingly picked up the keys. When he turned toward the truck, Jones picked up a nearby shovel. Holding it with both hands, he drew it behind him and quickly stepped after Bernardo. With a mighty forward momentum, he swung. There was a loud thud followed by a low vibration from the shovel blade.

Bernardo's body jolted forward. It landed on the dirt in a way Jones thought made him look like he was taking an afternoon siesta. But the widening moon of blood seeping to the surface of his straight dark hair belied that, all right.

Jones looked around. Seeing no one in the fading light, he edged up to Bernardo. With shovel still in his hands, he used his foot to roll the body over a few times until it was at the edge of the hole.

“This is your own damn fault, Bernardo. You made me think you didn’t know English.”

 

C H A P T E R 1

27 years later

Five minutes before the scruffy old stranger invaded our second floor work space, I had been sitting in my stamp-sized office. It was one of several cubicles partitioned off against a wall for minor managers like Curtis and me. It was an ordinary day. But the results of what was about to happen couldn’t have been imagined in the wildest flight of imagination.

For a moment I had looked out the office window at the bustle of work in TerraTech’s Communication Room to think about my career. Wouldn’t I better manage this Public Relations Department than flashy Curtis Brand? Surely so, I thought, though a wavering uncertainty played around the edges of my answer.

Lacking a cutthroat style, I was banking on attitude. No ugly thoughts. No behind-the-back remarks. Just continual demonstrations that I fit the job description better than he did. Competing with Curtis was hard. And to my everlasting regret, I had made it even more difficult on myself when I first signed on with the video game theme park down by the Oakland Coliseum. I’d broken the cardinal rule: never get involved with someone from the workplace. Worse yet, the involvement had been with Curtis. What a disaster.

By now, boss Carole Pemberton had dumped most of the Comm Room operations on the two of us as she eased herself out of the job. About to move on, she would choose one of us to replace her.

But, ooh, could I taste it. Darby D. Hill, Vice-President of Marketing and Public Relations for TerraTech’s Video Game Arcade. Just uttering the words delivered a euphoric charge. That’s how much I wanted it. Desire not only welled up, it bubbled over and flowed around all my activities.

What was my plan? I would plow through work breaks. I would work every night at home. I would look like a million dollars. I would do anything my bosses asked and a whole lot more.

I was nervous about the Choice. Carole’s evaluating eyes seemed to follow me whether she was present or not. Judgment Day was at hand. The announcement would be made. If unwilling to take a lesser position or if resentful, the loser’s password would become null and void, and office access denied. That way, the loser wouldn’t be tempted to sabotage the works.

I turned and typed in a command for a list of newspapers. A soft pop erupted and the fluorescent glow of my screen faded to a glassy grey. I stared at it. What was it about Fridays? Try to tie things up for the weekend and little knots and tangles begin to appear. I’d have to use a different computer. I dialed Tech Support and requested another monitor be sent to my office right away.

There were a few spare computers in the main room. Clipping on my pager, I glanced into a small wall mirror, tucked back a wisp of brown hair, and checked my eyeshadow. Then I walked out the door into the large rectangular Comm Room where the work of TerraTech’s marketing and public relations buzzed along.

 I spotted a free computer at one end of a work table. As I hurried toward it, I looked around for Carole. It is always wise to know if one’s boss is nearby. I let my eyes sweep across the wide room, across the processing clerks, the enlargers and the ad display tables. I looked to the right beyond the wide glass doors of the Comm Room where her office was. The two elevators at the second floor hallway busily swallowed and regurgitated employees and visitors, but Carole was nowhere in sight.

Before I could sit down at the computer, my romantic mistake, Curtis Brand, slipped in front of me and seated himself. He clutched the mouse and concentrated on the display.

I protested. “Hey, thief.”

“Communal. Communal. Generic machine,” he murmured, looking intently at the screen. “Just a quickie. Speed and satisfaction guaranteed.” His head turned toward me long enough to send a sly look.

He was trying to amuse, but his remark was a bit too much.

“Knock it off, Curtis.”

Had I known about his reputation before we got together, I wouldn’t have bought his lavish praise or misread his sincerity. Gullible me. I felt a flush rise up just thinking about it.

I learned I was one in a string of many. Being new and in administration had kept me out of the gossip loop and we’d kept our dating away from the office. After a few months, Sylvia, the Comm Room appointments manager, told me he was involved with someone from a law firm downtown. I broke out in a cold sweat. I felt faint, then sick. He had strung me along instead of telling me. In a flash I saw him as he was, a sweet-talking two-timing cad, and I’d wished to God I were home with my face in my pillow.

Curtis looked back at me. “Right. Bad joke,” he said. “Sorry. Don’t want you of all people turning against me, Darb. You mean a lot to me.” He sent me an apologetic smile and turned back to study a second menu on the screen.

You mean a lot to me? The remark was thoughtless considering our past. It was inexcusable.

 “I said to knock it off, Curtis. You’re now engaged to India, remember?” India Jamison was one of the nicest young women I’d ever known, in spite of being the privileged daughter of TerraTech’s owner, Randolph Jamison. I wondered if he’d end up hurting her too.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Darby. I meant I like you. Okay. I was wrong to say it. Sorry. I still have lingering bad habits,” he replied, his voice drifting off.

I shuddered and glanced at the second communal computer at the other end of the long table. It too was still in use. “Are you going to be brief here or shall I go somewhere else?”

“Brief, Co,” he said, using his familiar shorthand for me as his co-director. “I’m in a rush too.  I’m already late for a Channel Eight interview, but I need the precise titles of our three latest video games.”

I looked toward the double doors. Where was my monitor replacement from tech support?

As Curtis continued his hunt-and-peck style, I begrudgingly conceded him a few points. He made the rounds in the Comm Room and schmoozed up one and all. This had the effect of buoying up office morale. And... I felt a pang...he was attractive with his even features, black curly hair, and precise way of moving. In spite of the Don Juan reputation, he was very popular.

He had another plus. He often made local television appearances promoting TerraTech’s Arcade. Administrators, junior executives, secretaries, and aides all loved watching him hold forth on the tube about the virtues of our games.

My eye caught sight of Carole, fully materialized and approaching. “Time on your hands? It looks like a traffic jam over here.”

Carole Pemberton, fine-featured, blonde, and ten years older than my own thirty years, embodied my idea of perfect corporate efficiency. I had accepted her as my professional role model and mentor. I couldn’t let her think I was wasting time or hanging around Curtis without good cause.

 I scrambled to look good. “Of all things, my monitor just blew and I’ve called down for another. In the meantime, I need a computer to pull up a list of newspapers, but it is busy here. There are other things I need to do but Curtis says he’s about done here, unless, Carole, you want me to do something else right now.” I spun out the words explaining myself to the woman in whose hands my future lay.

She shook her head. “Not at the moment, Darby.” As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone again.

“Just give it up, Curtis. As a typist, you’re remedial.”

“Women’s work, that’s why.” He looked back at me again. “Oh-oh. Clarification in order. That too was a joke.” As he turned back, a list of computer games appeared. “Ah...here we go.”

“Well, write them down. Write them down.” I laced my fingers together behind my neck and let my eyes skim over the sea of computers, telephone attendants, and swarm of TerraTech posters plastered on the walls. But something didn’t fit.

A bulky shape swayed back and forth behind the heavy glass doors leading to the hallway and elevators. An old man was apparently attempting to avoid his own reflection in the glass doors as he peered into the Comm Room. Black greasy streaks smeared his khaki work shirt and pants. The shadow from the bill of his cap made it hard to see his eyes, but his unruly gray eyebrows made him look like a wild man.

No one showed up here looking as poorly as he did. Could it be he was to be met and taken somewhere? To fix some pipes or work on the air-conditioning? A doubt lingered. How had he passed through the guarded lobby desk, anyway?

“Curtis, did you forget to pay your mechanic?”

“What? Nope. Porche is just fine.” He wrote down his third title. I tapped on a listing on the screen. “That one—The Hubble Trouble—still needs to be reviewed. Want to do it?” Reviewing meant going out to play the game in one of the game sections. In this case it would be in Sky Probe III, which housed astronomy games. Reviewing made for a nice little break from office routine.

“Not if it has to be done today or Monday or Tuesday.”

“Lady,” boomed a voice next to me. A wave of sour breath washed over me, reminding me of some moldering cheese I’d once left in the refrigerator too long.

I drew back in disgust and forced myself to look at the old man who had come through the glass doors on his own during my moment of inattention. Fingerprint smudges were pressed into the bill of his baseball cap. He gripped a cane in one hand and placed the other hand on the table edge near Curtis.

“What is it?” That was as polite as I could manage. I glanced at a frosty growth of stubble on the lower part of his face which made him look like the hard luck cases at some of the downtown parks. Maybe I could speedily direct him out and on his way.

“I wanna see a guy named Curtis Brand,” he shouted. “He here?” The volume jolted me and the people close by. A few feet away, TerraTech’s solid little messenger, Lettie Packer, stopped rolling her delivery cart down the aisle and put a steadying hand on her glasses to peer at the three of us. At the same time, nearby workers slid their eyes off their screens to stare.

“And the nature of your visit?” I stalled. Curtis had glanced around when he heard his name, but turned back to the screen. Obviously, he wanted none of the man. I had taken the cue.

But with a quick change of mind, he stood up and turned around. “I’m Curtis Brand. What’s the problem?”

“Aha.” The old man fastened his eyes on Curtis and looked as pleased as if he had won a jackpot. “Me and you got things to talk about, Mr. Brand.” He glanced at me. “In private.”

Curtis crossed his arms. “Well, now, what would that be about, Mr. uh—”

“Jones. Al Jones. That don’t mean nothing to you yet. Take us somewhere we can talk. You’ll be interested enough in what I got to say when you hear it.”

“Oh? All right then, but it’s got to be quick. Let’s go to that office.” He pointed across the room toward his glass-enclosed cubbyhole along the wall next to my identical one. Turning back, Curtis mouthed the words, “Call...security.”

Exactly what I was going to do. I stepped to the closest data processing desk and picked up a phone while keeping my eyes on them. The old man was moving quickly, throwing weight on the cane with every step of his right foot. Curtis followed, game list in hand.

The switchboard came on. “There’s some old guy in the Comm Room who doesn’t belong here. Get security up here fast.”

I turned back and stared into Curtis’s office. The door had been closed but I could still see them through the glass windows. They seemed to be having a normal conversation.