Sims (17 page)

He shivered ever so slightly at the thought of being the object of that cold scrutiny.

“Who'd give that kind of money to a small-town ambulance chaser?”

“That boy's no rube. He was ready and waitin with an injunction when Beacon Ridge tried to trade some of its sims to another club. And he had another ready in record time when we issued that recall on them. He's anticipated us at every turn. He may be an opportunist, but he's a smart one.”

“Fine. He got lucky. But where did the money come from?”

“A cashier's check,” Voss said. “That's all I know.”

“Perfect,” Mercer said, cracking his knuckles in frustration. “So we can't trace it.”

“Yes, we can,” Portero said, speaking for the first time. “And we did.”

Mercer stared at the security chief, standing there in his dark suit with his hands tucked behind his back, straight as a board, like some parade ground tin soldier waiting to be inspected.

“Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

Mercer thought he sensed an instant of hesitation in Portero but couldn't be sure. He doubted this man had an uncertain cell in his body . . . and yet, he'd seen something flash across his face.

“We are looking into an unexpected aspect of the situation.”

“Which is?”

“The purchaser of the cashier's check was a Ms. Romy Cadman. You may remember the name: She led the OPRR inspection team.”

Mercer stiffened. “OPRR? You don't think—?”

Voss shook his head. “OPRR's budget just barely covers its expenses. Even if it had the surplus it wouldn't jeopardize its funding by getting involved in something like this.”

“Is she independently wealthy?” Mercer said, feeling his unease growing by the second. “Where'd she get that kind of money?”

“She lives modestly on a modest income,” Portero said flatly. “She purchased the check with cash. That is all we know—so far.”

A quarter of a million in cash. And probably more where that came from. Someone out there wanted Sullivan to succeed.

Again that sense of malevolent convergence through which he could almost hear the gears of some giant piece of machinery starting to turn . . . an engine of destruction. But whose engine? Whose destruction?

“I don't like this,” Mercer said.

“Neither do my people,” Portero said. “We're going to handle matters from here.”

“Meaning what?” Ellis said.

Mercer glanced at his brother. Their eyes met. On this they could agree; neither of them was comfortable with the way Portero's people handled problems.

“Meaning this situation is spinning out of control. Your attempt to stop Sullivan failed. Now it's our turn.”

“Now wait a minute,” Voss said, both chins jiggling as he hauled his bulk
out of the chair. “Wait just one damn minute. Don't you folks say another word until I'm on the right side of that door. I don't need to hear this.”

He hustled across the gray carpet and let himself out.

As soon as the door closed Ellis turned to Portero. “You're not planning to—”

“No plans have been finalized, but direct action will be taken.”

“No!” Ellis said, rising. “I'm not going to sit by while you and your people pull more of your dirty tricks.”

“You have no choice, I'm afraid,” Portero said without changing his inflection. “The matter is out of your hands. Sullivan has proven smarter and more stubborn than anyone anticipated. Even though the chance that his suit will set a precedent is remote, the mere possibility that he might succeed is unacceptable. My people have decided to stop him now, before he uses the courtroom to plant himself in the national consciousness.”

“My God!” Ellis moaned, shutting his eyes. “Why did we ever become involved with you?”

Portero didn't answer. No answer was needed. But here again, for the second time in as many minutes—a rare occurrence, to be sure—Mercer could agree with his brother. He wished at times like these that they'd found another way to finance their start-up back in the seventies. But he knew that when he settled down later and was able to regain his perspective, this feeling would pass, and once again he'd appreciate how SimGen never could have achieved its current dominance without SIRG's help.

Portero said, “We also intend to learn the source of the Cadman woman's money.”

“How will you do that?”

“Not your concern.” And again a flash of something in Portero's ebony eyes, almost like regret this time. “But we will know.”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY
OCTOBER 26

“Mr. Sullivan?”

Patrick looked up from the box he'd just folded closed. He was nearly finished packing up the books in his office. Strangely enough, he wasn't the least bit sad about leaving Payes & Hecht. And from the cool reception he'd received in the hallways, he gathered the feeling was mutual.

Only Maggie seemed genuinely sorry to see him go. She was out now, scrounging up more boxes for him, so there'd been no one to intercept his visitor.

He saw a thin, aging woman in a faded blue flowered dress and a rumpled red cardigan sweater. She wore a yellow scarf around her head, babushka style, and clutched a battered black handbag before her with both her bony hands. Her pale hazel eyes peered at him and she nodded vigorously.

“Yes, you're him,” she said. “I recognize you from the TV.”

“Yes, ma'am?” he said. “Can I help you, Ms. . . . ?”

“Fredericks.
Miss
Alice Fredericks.” She offered a smile that might have been girlish had she possessed more teeth. “I wish to retain your services, Mr. Sullivan.”

The poor woman didn't look like she had enough for her next meal. Not that it mattered. He was no longer with the firm.

“I'm afraid I—”

“I want you to sue SimGen for me. I can tell you're a brave man. You're taking on the company on behalf of those poor dear sims, so I figure you're just the man, in fact the
only
man with the guts to tackle them for me.”

This was interesting.

“That's very gratifying. On what grounds would you wish me to tackle them, may I ask?”

Her face screwed up, accentuating her wrinkles, and she looked as if she was about to cry. “They took my baby!” she wailed.

Baby? Patrick stared at her. A warning bell clanged in his brain. SimGen might have some skeletons in its corporate closets, but he doubted stealing babies was one of them. And this woman was long, long past the baby-bearing years.

“When did this happen?”

She sobbed. “Years and years ago! I . . . I'm not sure how many. Things get fuzzy . . .”

“Why have you waited so long to go after them?”

“I've been to every lawyer in New York City and no one will take the case. They're all afraid!”

“I find that hard to believe, Miss Fredericks. There are literally thousands of lawyers in the city who would get in line to sue SimGen.”

“Sure . . . until they hear about the space aliens.”

Oh, Christ. No need for a warning bell anymore. There it was, right out on the table: a big, multicolored bull's-eye with
Looney Tunes
scrawled across it.

Patrick didn't want to ask but had to. “Aliens?”

“Yes. Space aliens abducted me, impregnated me, and then when I delivered, it was a sim. But I loved him anyway. That didn't matter, though. They took my baby boy away from me. And do you know who they handed him to? Right in front of me? Mercer Sinclair! Mercer Sinclair took my baby and I want him back!” She sobbed again.

She wasn't scamming. Patrick had a sensitive bullshit meter and it wasn't even twitching. This poor woman believed every word.

“I sympathize, Miss Fredericks, but—”

“And you know what Mercer Sinclair did with my son, don't you? He made the whole race of sims from him. And he did it for the aliens so that earth can be repopulated by a slave race that the aliens can use around the galaxy.”

Patrick blinked. A living breathing talking issue of
Weekly World News
had walked into his office. It might be funny if the woman weren't so genuinely upset. And he might be tempted to sit down and listen to her—purely for entertainment—if he didn't have such a burning need to put this place behind him.

“Tell you what, Miss Fredericks. I'm leaving the firm, so I won't be able to help you. But you could try one of the firm's associates. I suggest you go
down the hall and find Mr. Richard Berger's office and tell him your story. And tell him I referred you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I'll do that right now.”

That should teach Berger to call him Sim-Sim Sullivan.

MANHATTAN

“Perrier?” Judy said. “Are my ears playing tricks or did I just hear you order water?”

Ellis had been taking in Tavern On The Green's sunny, glass-walled Terrace Room with its hand-carved plaster ceiling and panoramic view of Central Park. The park was more impressive when in bloom, but even here in the fall he found a certain stark, Wyethesque beauty in the denuded trees. The Terrace Room's seating capacity was 150. Today it seated only four: Ellis, Judy, his daughter, Julie, and son, Robbie, the birthday boy. He'd rented out the entire space for a family luncheon.

Ellis turned to his ex-wife. Judy was looking better than ever. With her perfectly coiffed blond hair, her diamond bracelets, and her high-collared, long-sleeved, clinging pink dress made out of some sort of jersey material—Versace, he guessed, because she'd always loved Versace—she fit perfectly in this ornate setting. Judy was only two years his junior, but Ellis thought he must look like her father. She was enjoying her wealth from the divorce settlement. Far more than Ellis was enjoying his own.

“Yes,” Ellis told her. “I've decided to take a vacation from alcohol.”

“That's wonderful, Ellis.” He knew she meant it. The divorce had been amicable: Ellis had told her she could have anything she wanted. That said, she'd taken a lot less then she could have—more than the GNP of a number of small nations, to be sure, but still, she could have grabbed for so much more. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since the summer.”

“What made you . . . ?”

“Lots of developments, lots of things happening. Things I want to keep an eye on.”

“And Mercer? How's he?”

“The same. Eats, sleeps, and drinks the business. Still obsessed with SimGen's profits and its image. Someday he'll look around and wonder where his life has gone.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Did you hold on to all that SimGen stock from the settlement?”

Her brows knitted. “Yes. Why?”

“Wait till after the earnings report at the December stockholders' meeting, take advantage of the bounce, then dump it.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Things might become . . . unsettled. I want you and the kids protected. But mum's the word. Just sell quietly and stick it all in T-notes, okay?”

She set her lips and nodded.

“Good.” He straightened, put on a happy face, and looked around the table. “But enough about me and Mercer and business. This is a celebration.” He turned to Robbie. “How's the birthday going so far?”

His son shrugged, a typical fifteen-year-old's studied nonchalance mixing with embarrassment at being out on the town with his folks and his younger sister on his birthday. He was underdressed in denims for the occasion, but that was to be expected of a boy his age; his buzz-cut hair revealed a bumpy skull. Hardly attractive, Ellis thought, but it was the style. So was the turquoise stud in Robbie's left eyebrow. At least he showed no signs of a splice, and Ellis prayed he never would. He realized it was a teenager's duty to irk his parents, but he hoped Robbie would find his own ways rather than galloping after the herd.

“Okay, I guess.”

Ellis smiled. He wasn't making any appreciable progress developing the new sim line he so desperately wanted, but he was feeling good about himself nonetheless, better than he had in years, and he wanted to share it. Only on rare state occasions did they get together as a family, but he'd used Robbie's fifteenth birthday as a reason, and it was as good an excuse as any.

“Just okay?” Ellis said. “This is your favorite restaurant, right?”

He had a big day planned. After lunch they'd head for Broadway where he had four precious front-row seats for
Wordplay!
, the hot new musical comedy everyone said was a must-see. Then dinner at Le Cirque, followed by a Knicks game in the SimGen skybox.

As Robbie shrugged, Julie chimed in. “I can't wait to see the play!”

She was thirteen and the light of Ellis's life. Judy had dressed her in a plaid wool skirt and a white blouse. Julie's pod backpack was suede, sporting the Dooney & Bourke logo. Robbie was an intelligent kid, but Julie was brilliant. She had a wonderful future ahead of her.

A memory surfaced . . . of the day SIRG had threatened Julie to assure his silence, to keep him in line. And it had worked . . . for a while . . . until he'd found another way to make things right. But God help Julie and Robbie if SIRG ever found out.

He shoved the memory back into the depths. Nothing was going to ruin today.

“You just want to see Joey Dozier,” Robbie sneered.

“Who's he?” Ellis said, fully aware he was a teen heartthrob who'd moved from a hit TV sitcom to lead in a Broadway play. “Never heard of him.”

Julie got a dreamy look in her eyes. “He's
gorgeous!
” she said, as if that explained it all.

Ellis started to laugh but it died in his throat as he saw the small crowd of sign-carrying protesters appear at the Terrace Room windows. Their chant of “Free the sims! Free the sims!” began to echo through the glass.

The tuxedoed maitre d' hurried to Ellis's side.