Chapter Three
I start my post-Labor Day Tuesday morning feeling like a zombie. I couldn’t fall asleep after the events at the casino, but I can’t skip work today. I have an appointment with Bill.
Bill is my boss, and no one ever calls him that—except me, in my thoughts. His name is William Pierce. As in Pierce Capital Management. Even his wife calls him William—I’ve heard her do it. Most people call him Mr. Pierce, because they’re uncomfortable calling him by his first name. So, yeah, Bill is among the few people I take seriously. Even if, in this case, I’d rather nap than meet with him.
I wish it were possible to sleep in the Quiet. Then I’d be all set. I’d phase in and snooze right under my desk without anyone noticing.
I achieve some semblance of clear thought after my first cup of coffee. I’m in my cubicle at this point. It’s eight a.m. If you think that’s early, you’re wrong. I was actually the last to get into the office in my part of the floor. I don’t care what those early risers think of my lateness, though. I can barely function as is.
Despite my achievements at the fund, I don’t have an office. Bill has the only office in the company. It would be nice to have some privacy for slacking off, but otherwise, I’m content with my cube. As long as I can work in the field or from home most of the time—and as long as I get paid on par with people who typically have offices—the lack of my own office doesn’t bother me.
My computer is on, and I’m looking at the list of coworkers on the company instant messenger. Aha—I see Bert’s name come online. This is really early for him. As our best hacker, he gets to stroll in whenever he wants, and he knows it. Like me, he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about it. In fact, he probably cares even less than I do—and thus comes in even later. I initially thought we would talk after my meeting with Bill, but there’s no time like the present, since Bert is in already.
“Stop by,” I message him. “Need your unique skills.”
“BRT,” Bert replies. Be right there.
I’ve known Bert for years. Unlike me, he’s a real prodigy. We were the only fourteen-year-olds in a Harvard Introduction to Computer Science course that year. He aced the course without having to phase into the Quiet and look up the answers in the textbook, the way I did in the middle of the exams. Nor did he pay a guy from Belarus to write his programing projects for him.
Bert is the computer guy at Pierce. He’s probably the most capable coder in New York City. He always drops hints that he used to work for some intelligence agency as a contractor before I got him to join me here and make some real money.
“Darren,” says Bert’s slightly nasal voice, and I swivel my chair in response.
Picturing this guy as part of the CIA or FBI always puts a smile on my face. He’s around five-four, and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. Before we became friends, my nickname for Bert was Mini-Me.
“So, Albert, we should discuss that idea you gave me last week,” I begin, jerking my chin toward one of our public meeting rooms.
“Yes, I would love to hear your report,” Bert responds as we close the door. He always overacts this part.
As soon as we’re alone, he drops the formal colleague act. “Dude, you fucking did it? You went to Vegas?”
“Well, not quite. I didn’t feel like taking a five-hour flight—”
“So you opted for a two-hour cab ride to Atlantic City instead,” Bert interrupts, grinning.
“Yes, exactly.” I grin back, taking a sip of my coffee.
