The Pieces of My Self

24 - Sittin' Pretty

TONY

Office of Brown & Associates, 10 June 2174, Friday

Tony adjusted the binoculars as he peered through the window blinds. He liked the way the women carried themselves—so proud, with busts sticking out like the bumpers of high-end cars, butts swaying like ripe plums on trees. They sauntered into and out of an exclusive fashion boutique across the street. If anyone had asked him what he was doing, he had a ready reply, "Bird watching."

Most of the ladies were young, shapely and monied. Their skirts were so short he could see to Christmas. Several reminded him of Lillian before they were married. He remembered how beautiful she looked, how attracted to wealth, how vulnerable.

Money. That's the ticket. He was already Mangalotte's personal lawyer—a good start. But you can never have enough money. Money was sex. Money was freedom. Money was the ability to thumb your nose at people and have them still love you so long as they can breathe your air—the air of money.

While he had the binoculars in hand, he pressed the Convert button, and the optical instrument became a weapon. He checked the magazine. It was an imported trick gun with multiple functions. He had a meeting later with Mangalotte's Toppers—Black nationalists with guns—and felt he needed some insurance. Toppers were all paranoid, and sometimes they scanned his bags.

All good. It's loaded with six rounds.

He put it back into his briefcase and tried to focus on the problems the president had given him. Now that Knightly was gone, he had a new role—social engineering. Things had been too loose for too long in Loumissala. Mangalotte's previous advisors, dominated by Knightly, had struggled with implementing the president's vision of Black nationalism. The conundrum: Do you do it slowly, the way water works on rocks over time, or quickly, through a rapid purge?

Slow had not worked. Ratcheting up prices of goods and services based on loyalty and racial purity stratified the population, but people resisted classification. There were too many instances of street mobs and dissenters troubling the waters.

Tony was convinced the country needed a shock. A mob of believers, if properly motivated and directed, and armed with baseball bats and kitchen implements, could easily establish the new order within a couple of weeks. It would begin with a surprise attack that would catch the faithless off guard. A night of shattered glass. Bloody. Efficient. Quick.

He was eager to work out the details. His two personal assistants had gone for the day, and only one junior associate remained—three offices down the hall. I'll start planning tomorrow when I have my A-Team back.

He was annoyed when his netcard buzzed, breaking his concentration. He reached for the device in his pocket and swiveled his hand-crafted oak chair around, bumping the desk, causing his favorite picture of the president to topple, face down.

The image of Joshua Haynes appeared on the wall screen.

"Is this a good time?" Joshua said.

It wasn't, but Tony decided to lie. "Sterling."

"Those assets you were looking for..."

"Yes?"

"Likely to be in the neighborhood of tens of billions. Maybe more. Distributed across other sovereign territories."

"Based on?"

"Bank withdrawals, sales of stock, digital dollar transactions, foreign credits. And that's just what I could document."

"Well, that's interesting. Very interesting. I'm sure Debra Knightly doesn't have a clue."

A muffled laugh issued from the other end of the line.

"I want to make sure our intrepid mathematician doesn't get any ideas," Tony said. "She may be getting close. I want to know everything—what she's doing, who she's seeing, and who she prays to at night. Bug her house, her network, her clothing. I want to know when she takes a shit. Comprendre?"

"Got it. I'll call you tomorrow about the same time with an update."

"Thanks. And Joshua, this is for the President and country. When we find the goods, I'll let Mangalotte know you were the one who nailed it. Good work. Thanks for your loyalty. Bye."

He hung up, wondering how much he could trust Joshua. The man was an entrepreneur who knew how to look out for himself.

He made another call.

"Hi Debra. Tony here. I've got good news. We've estimated Henri's missing assets. They could amount to a few millions. I've hired a couple of experts to track it down, but need more money to cover expenses. I'll send an invoice if that's okay."

They went back and forth. When Tony hung up, he was buoyant.

He contacted Mangalotte's private net address. The avatar answered.

"I want to talk to the President," Tony said. "It's urgent."

"We have been through this before. Speaking to me is like talking directly to him."

"Tell the president I have an independent expert working on his problem. We now have a promising line of inquiry on the location of his granddaughter. But I need more money for the investigation. We will report only to him—for security reasons."

"I will get back to you," the avatar said, and ended the session.

Tony slipped the netcard into his pocket, returned his gaze to the boutique across the street, and sang an old-time ditty:

Sittin'pretty
Yeah, I'm sittin' pretty
Good, I'm sittin' pretty
Damn, I'm sittin' pretty
Good.