Gridlock (15 page)

Sam sat down and tugged at his cigar. He looked his friend up and down for a moment while Bruce caught his breath. When Sam did speak, he spoke gently, almost with a hint of humour.

'There ain't gonna to be no Global Motors hydrogen engine, Bruce,' he said. 'Fact is, there ain't gonna be any hydrogen engine at all.'

'What . . .? What are you talking about? You said . . .'

'I know what I said, Bruce,' said Sam gently, 'and there ain't gonna be no hydrogen engine. So put your stupid doll back where it was.'

Bruce stared at Sam aghast for a moment. His fists clenched.

'What is this, a joke?' hissed Bruce. 'Some kind of stupid trick? You going to go down the bar and tell all the guys you sold the boss on a story about an engine that didn't drink petrol? If you've been joking, Sam, I swear, I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to sack you.'

Bruce strode around his desk, the veins on his neck standing out. He was a trim, lean-looking man, and he looked ready to bury a fist like a forty-ton truck in Sam's not inconsiderable gut.

'I ain't been kidding you, Bruce, so just wash off your war paint, OK? The design exists, I just said the engine ain't going to get made.' Bruce was too stunned to speak. 'Listen, old pal, what do you and I make if we bring a radical new machine into the corporation? Huh? One that turns round the fortunes of the whole company?'

'Well,' said Bruce thoughtfully. 'In theory, of course, nothing. After all, it's our job to bring new ideas into the company and I guess we're paid pretty well as it is. But if it's money you're worrying about, I'm sure I wouldn't be overstating things if I was to talk in terms of million-dollar bonuses.'

'Million dollar?' enquired Sam.

'Yes, I should imagine it could run as high as that, possibly more,' Bruce assured him in his best president of the company manner.

'Listen, Bruce, we've known each other a long time, and I don't want to sound offensive but you're talking like a pathetic small-minded little fuckwit,' said Sam, not wanting to sound offensive but failing rather badly.

'Now listen here, Turk—' said Bruce.

'This engine is worth billions,' said Sam, 'many, many billions. Do you hear that, Bruce? Not one million but many
thousands
of millions. The two single largest industries in the world, motor and oil, could be utterly destroyed by it.'

'Oil, maybe,' cried Bruce, 'and good riddance to 'em. Fuck those fat Texans and those anti-American towel-heads in the Gulf. But the motor industry! It will be the phoenix I predicted, rising out of the flames of its dead self to an even greater strength.'

'Maybe,' said Sam, 'after a minimum fifteen years of retooling, re-educating, re-equipping, fifteen years of total and utter confusion, you and I will be dead before the damn thing starts to show a profit. Christ, it took compact discs nearly ten years to make any real money. Switching from oil to hydrogen will be as big a revolution as cars were in the first place.'

'So what are you saying?' said Bruce, who was beginning to guess at what Sam was saying, and it made him gasp.

'You want to know where the
real
money is in this invention? The
now
money, not the next year money. You want to know where
our
money is? Not the shareholders of Global Motors, money, but
our
money? You want to know where that is?'

Bruce knew.

'The real money is in
not
producing the engine, Bruce,' said Sam, a heavenly happiness bubbling beneath his outer calm. 'That's why I need you; I need a partner with contacts a lot better than mine; a guy who I can trust to make the best deal; to help play both ends off against the centre – to grab the sale of the century. People know I'm kind of rough and ready, I need someone smooth in there, that's you, Bruce, ol' pal. Otherwise, obviously, I would have rowed you out and gone it alone.'

'Thanks, Sam, I appreciate your frankness,' said Bruce. 'What's your plan? Take it to the Japs and the Krauts, tell them we got an engine that'll blow them out of the water and ask them if they want to buy it?'

'Maybe, yeah, maybe we'll put 'em in the frame, just because we're going to be rich don't mean we shouldn't be picking up the peanuts.'

'Peanuts? They'll pay billions,' protested Bruce.

'Peanuts,' said Sam firmly. 'Think bigger, Bruce. This engine would score bigger losers than Honda and BMW. After all, in the end they can retool, eventually they'll pinch the design, ignore the patent, they'd come back. They've done it before, haven't they? The bastards. Bavarian Motor Works wasn't worth fuck in '45, was it? No, Bruce, they're the peanuts. Who really stands to lose from the hydrogen engine, old pal? Who'll never come back?'

'My God, the oil companies,' gasped Bruce. 'BP, Shell, Texaco, Esso! They'd be nothing without the petrol engine, nothing.'

'Nothing, old pal,' reiterated Sam. 'Might be a few bucks left, making fire lighters and heating town halls. Imagine it, the mighty Shell standing on the street corner selling petroleum jelly to fruits.'

'It's an incredible concept. A trillion-dollar industry, and its shirt is open, there is a big target painted on its chest . . . We could kill it, Sam . . . We organize a meeting, we make 'em pool their resources – we could take them for a billion each!'

'You're right, Bruce, and we will,' answered Sam. 'But it's still peanuts, old pal, it still comes dry roasted in a jar.'

'Don't be absurd,' snapped Bruce. 'A billion is not peanuts in anybody's language.'

'Oh yeah?' asked Sam. 'How about Arabic?'

'Oh my God,' said Bruce, sitting down. For the first time his big chair made him look small.

'How about Venezuelan? Russian? . . . How's about Texan, yew good ol' boy yew,' said Sam in an accent which he intended to have come from Dallas but, being no actor, it could have been Scottish. Returning to his real voice, Sam returned to his original point, 'But most of all, most most of all, Bruce, how about Arabic?'

'You want to hold the Gulf states to ransom?' said Bruce, and it was almost as if the room got darker as he spoke.

'I do,' said Sam. 'That is exactly what I want to do. Texas has other assets besides oil, the Russians don't even know how to pump theirs properly, but what do the Arabs have? They ain't got nothing but oil . . . Think about it, Bruce. We, the controlling figures behind America's biggest car maker, possess a secret engine, an engine that will blow those Arab kingdoms and Muslim republics all the way back to the Dark Ages. In fifteen years, if we so choose, they could be selling perfume and spices again. We could destroy their entire world. I say we
have
to be looking at a minimum of ten
billion
apiece. I guess we could be the richest men on earth.'

The room was swimming before Bruce's eyes, after all, he had not had quite so long to adjust to the idea as Sam had. Sam was continuing his thesis . . .

'That's the real reason why I have to kill the Einstein guy. If we're asking for that kind of money, we have to be able to guarantee that, when we hand it over, those Arabs are getting the only copy in existence.'

'Sam,' Bruce tried but failed to keep the fear from his voice, 'what do you think the President would do if somebody tried to blackmail him over the entire economy of the United States?'

'Well I guess he would probably have the CIA try and bump the blackmailer off,' replied Sam.

'Yes,' said Bruce, 'and I have a kind of suspicion that that is exactly how we can expect the Gulf states to react as well.'

'Hey, hey, hey, Bruce. Who said anything about blackmail? Did I mention blackmail? You mentioned blackmail, I didn't. All I am talking about here is a simple deal, that's all. We are simply offering certain oil-producing parties the first refusal to buy out the rights of a certain engine type that is in our possession. It happens all the time.'

'Well, that's true I guess,' conceded Bruce. 'But I still think they'll try and kill us.'

'Which is why there needs to be two of us. Only one of us ever goes in, the other sits tight, lays low, maybe we even tell them there's more of us. But they won't get rough, I swear it, not with Bruce Tungsten pitching them. Sure they might try and bump me off as a punk on the make, but with Mr Automobile himself they'll know it's just business. A straight deal. We have an invention which they can purchase if they wish. Listen, Bruce, until they have the world rights to that engine they have to play ball, and once we have the cash what are they going to do? Mug us? The money will be the bank's problem, there'd be no point in killing us. Besides, ten billion each buys a lot of protection.'

These people know people who blow up aeroplanes, Sam! They take hostages! You don't know what you're getting into here . . .'

'What I am getting into is asking a group of countries to give me twenty billion dollars, minimum, so as not to destroy them. I'll tell them to think of me as a country myself if it makes it easier for them. Come on, Bruce, we're big boys, I guess those kind of stakes have to be worth a little risk.'

'And if I don't want any part of it?' asked Bruce.

'Then you will never see me again. At least, when you do, it will be on the front of
Business Week,'
Sam replied.

'OK, I'm in. When do I get to see the plans?'

'Oh, whenever we can arrange it, ol' pal,' said Sam. 'Global Motors,' he shouted and clapped his hands at the little doll.

As a politician, Digby should have realized that he who sups with the devil should use a long spoon, but Digby was rather a silly politician and he burned with fury at what he mistakenly believed had been Sam Turk's part in his political undoing. Digby had therefore decided to get back at Turk by attempting to expose him in the press. He would inform the world that the president of Global Motors UK was in the habit of stealing patents.

Digby's original idea had been to deal with what is known as a 'quality' paper. He had written a rather pompous letter, on House of Commons notepaper, to the editor of a rather pompous newspaper of the type that is too large to read successfully on the lavatory – unless of course you are an expert in origami. The letter purported to be a public-spirited tip-off from a concerned MP, regarding a clear case of corporate criminality. However, the editor was a professional, expert at reading between the lines, and in the case of Digby's letter there was an ulterior motive between every one of them.

'Absolutely transparent,' the editor had remarked, describing the letter at a dinner given by his publisher. 'The spiteful little so-and-so's trying to smear Turk, God knows why. Must be something that happened while he was Minister. Pathetic effort, the story's unusable, nothing more than an unsubstantiated libel. Global Motors would sue us into an overdraft.'

Also present at the dinner party was Christian Corbet, the editor of another newspaper, owned by the same publisher, the
Sunday Word. A
journal of a size convenient for taking to the lavatory but for which, once there, a far better use could be found than reading it. Corbet was a man for whom the only good thing about the word 'conscience' was the first syllable.

'Would you mind if I took a look at that letter?' enquired Corbet. 'We might be able to make something of it.'

And so it was that Digby found himself in communication with the
Sunday Word.
At first he was suspicious, understandably, but Corbet (the editor himself, a point which appealed to Digby's vanity) protested such good faith and genuine interest in the story that Digby was eventually wooed. Besides, as Corbet pointed out, Digby
had
written the letter, surely he was honour bound to discuss the accusations therein, and, if possible, substantiate them. Another option, Corbet darkly hinted, might be for his newspaper to discuss the matter with Turk. The editor was forced to point out to Digby that a top motor executive suing an ex-cabinet minister for libel also made for good copy.

Digby went to discuss his story with Corbet at the offices of the
Sunday Word –
an act comparable to a frog hopping into a French restaurant and offering to do a deal.

'So you see, Christian,' Digby was saying, as the jaws closed over him. 'Obviously the Patents Office kept me informed of any interesting developments in the field of motor engineering, and, perhaps rather foolishly, I let slip something of what I knew to Samuel Turk, the chief executive at Global Motors UK. Very silly of me of course. After all, careless talk costs lives and all that, aha ha ha ha,
thnn thnn thnn.'

Digby laughed because his last comment was intended as a light witticism. It wasn't of course, but even if it had been the funniest thing since Coke tried to change their recipe, Christian would not have laughed. Being a tabloid editor, he knew that the only form of humour in the English language worthy of recognition is the pun. 'We say "peas off" to French greengrocers' for instance or, 'Trudi's no good at sums but the fellas can tell her she's got one figure absolutely right.' Years of the ruthless pursuit of the pun had rendered Christian completely oblivious to the possibility of any other form of humour.

'Anyway,' Digby continued, oblivious to the fact that he was staring down the throat of a man who picked the likes of Digby out of his teeth at the end of the day. 'Within a very short time, the documents to which I had foolishly alluded were stolen from Whitehall. I was absolutely certain that Mr Turk had been instrumental in the theft and I confronted him furiously at party conference. He denied it of course, as any common rogue would, but he later found ways to hit back at me, demonstrating, I feel, that my accusations had found their mark. I am convinced, Mr Corbet, that a major industrial company is in the habit of breaking into government offices and I feel that despite my own unfortunate, although entirely innocent, connection with the scandal, this is a matter of which the public should be made aware.'

'Of course, Mr Parkhurst, of course,' replied Christian, through a languid, half-closed mouth, which was the way he always communicated. Some thought it was to appear relaxed and urbane, actually it was to hide his fangs . . . 'And you feel that the proof of Mr Turk's guilt in this matter is that, after you had "confronted" him, Mr Turk conspired against you personally, causing you to be severely embarrassed at party conference?'

'Yes, that is the case,' said Digby, leaping and snapping at the bright, shiny hook which Christian Corbet dangled before him.

'How did he manage that, Mr Parkhurst, I wonder?' Christian's lips scarcely seemed to move. 'What method did he use to conspire against you and hence cause you such distress?'

'Ah . . . ah . . . now you see, I thought you'd ask that, Mr Corbet,' said Digby, trying to appear wise to any journalistic tricks, but actually looking like a man with a sign on his trousers saying 'Here is my arse, please kick it' . . . 'Oh yes, I was very certain that you would ask that.'

'And I did ask, Mr Parkhurst,' replied Christian.

'And I uhm, I decided that it was not relevant to the scandal I am offering you and hence have decided to say no more about it,' said Digby in his firm voice – a voice so lacking in firmness you could have spread it straight from the fridge onto fresh crusty bread.

'Oh I think it is relevant, Mr Parkhurst. I think it is the very first thing that the public will wish to know,' Christian assured Digby.

'It's really a matter of very little interest or importance to anybody,' said Digby, in a voice which was now attempting to appear relaxed but which sounded about as relaxed as a paranoid neurotic who's just sat on a box of fireworks.

'So you don't want to talk about the fact that he was blackmailing you?' said Christian.

'Blackmail! Who said anything about blackmail? It's preposterous, I never mentioned blackmail,' Digby spluttered.

'Mr Parkhurst, a week ago you were a senior minister, now, as a result of a conference debacle, you are sat on the back benches with nobody wanting to sit next to you. He must have had something pretty juicy on you I'd have thought.'

'I can assure you that you are wrong, Mr Corbet,' said Digby. 'Now you have your story and I consider it a damn good one. So if you will excuse me, I am a very busy man.'

Digby rose to go and Christian Corbet allowed him to leave without further questioning.

'Well, well, well. Sometimes God smiles even upon us lowly hacks,' said Christian Corbet to himself, as he watched Digby's figure retreat across the mighty news floor of a great and historic British newspaper; past the top investigative teams, hard at work trying to find connections between prominent homosexuals and AIDS sufferers; past the picture desks, where highly skilled graphic artists were diligently touching up the gussets on the latest pics of some minor royal with the wind up her dress; past the little corner where George Wood, 'The voice of sanity', sat twitching in his straitjacket, waiting to be unleashed to tear off another completely barking article about lesbians being paid for by Labour councils; past all the honourable scriveners of the fourth estate – and out of the vipers' nest.

'Galton,' said Christian to his news editor, who had silently attended the interview with Digby. 'What do you think it is that I wish to know?'

Digby had hardly noticed that Galton was in the room. He was a prim, fastidious, ferret-like man, who instinctively stood in shadows and corners avoiding the light.

'I would imagine, chief,' Galton replied, consulting the notes he had taken in his neat, precious handwriting, 'that you would like to know what it was that happened to Parkhurst, after the reported ill feeling at the road lobby reception, that would make him so radically cock up his speech.'

'That is correct, Galton,' said Christian, and you could not have squeezed a forged fiver between his clam-like lips. 'That is exactly what I wish to know. You may unleash the pack.'

'A flame thrower! What is this, a war? Are we going to Iwo Jima? My momma did not raise her girl to be a soldier.'

Deborah was protesting at having a canister of gas hung beneath the seat of her wheelchair.

'Listen, girl,' said Toss, who was helping Geoffrey with the heavier work, 'I always reckoned the best, right, instruction in the world was one word, right? "Run", that is the world's best fight instructions, and let me tell you, if these heavy geezers ask me where Geoffrey is I'm going to say, "He's over there, guy, the little bloke who can't keep his head still," and then I'm going to run. But you can't run, Debbo, and so if they cut up nasty, girl, you will have no alternative but to fight, and, like, I don't want to cast aspersions, but a chick in a wheelchair ain't the most scarifying sight for a ten-ton thug with a meat axe and garrotting wire and an insane, maniacal grin, who enjoys inflicting pain on the helpless – know what I mean?'

'You're a very eloquent man, Toss,' replied Deborah. 'You must remind me to call you next time I need help filling out my nightmares.'

'OK, Deborah.' Geoffrey emerged from under the back of the chair like a mechanic at Brands Hatch. 'I reckon you'll be able to throw a sheet of flame about eight to ten feet from between your legs.'

'Now that is a neat trick,' said Deborah, 'and one every girl should be taught by her mom.'

'But whatever you do, make sure you spread your knees apart, otherwise, four hundred cubic centimetres of burning gas could disappear up your backside. Now, Toss, help me depress the flat iron.'

The flat iron was exactly that, a small, old-fashioned solid flat iron welded to the jointed arm of an anglepoise lamp. Deborah, like many people, loved buying crap at markets; old fizzy pop bottles, odd cups and saucers and, in this case, a flat iron. Toss had a great deal of trouble depressing the arm down into its niche on the inside side of the arm of Deborah's chair, because Geoffrey had replaced the springs that had been on the lamp arm with some from a Bullworker, which Toss had bought in one of those hopelessly optimistic exercise fits which occasionally consume normally rational people.

'I am going to seriously tone up my body, guy,' he had promised himself. 'I'm going to pack so much power, when I ripple a muscle, the
building
is going to shake. It is going to show up on the
Richter
scale!'

Toss was convinced, as millions had been before him, that if he bought an exercise machine, he would definitely use it, and what's more, use it every morning. He had of course used it once, and then rather unimpressively. 'Ten minutes a day' the booklet had said and Toss had grabbed up the machine with joyful enthusiasm.

After what Toss was convinced must be well over ten minutes, he glanced at the clock. To his astonishment less than two minutes had passed. 'No pain no gain, guy,' he murmured philosophically, and continued his workout. The next time he allowed himself a glance at the clock, after what seemed an eternity of pushing and pulling, scarcely another minute had passed! Toss was amazed, time seemed to be virtually standing still. He stared at the second hand on the clock, willing it on, but the more he tried, the more it appeared to be actually slowing down until eventually coming to a virtual standstill.

From Newton to Einstein there has been much fascinating discussion on the various factors that affect time. These include speed, mass, weight, distance and strange phrases like 'quantum mechanics' which scientists make up in order to sound important and convince the rest of us that we are thick. However, for some inexplicable reason, despite all this racking of the brain, no serious research has been done into the commonest and most radical 'time bender' of them all, which is, of course, exercise.

It seems that Einstein claimed that time travels more slowly at the speed of light, or he claimed something like that anyway. He made it rather difficult to be absolutely sure what he claimed, by deliberately and maliciously employing equations that nobody understood in order to put people off the scent and stop them contradicting him. Anyway, if he did claim that time travels more slowly at the speed of light, and let us presume for the purpose of argument that he did, it is difficult to see why anybody ever thought it such an earth-shattering observation, because the deceleration involved pales into insignificance when compared to the rate at which time passes at the speed of an exercise bike or a gentle jog. Twenty minutes on an exercise bike can take anything up to a year of ordinary time. The seconds crawl past as if they were anchored to the clock face. A fellow might set off for a 'quick half-hour run' and return to find his children grown old and his house replaced by an amusement arcade. Even then, he'll only have done twenty-six minutes and will have to fill out the remaining time with a few desultory push-ups.

The fact that exercise makes you live longer is not, as many believe, a biological circumstance, but a law of physics.

Anyway, Toss gave up exercising within three earth minutes of beginning it. Then, a considerably older and wiser man, he hurled the machine he had bought into a corner and there it had languished ever since, staring at Toss contemptuously and whispering, 'Nice body tone, pigeon chest. I can't exactly feel the buildings shake.'

Finally, to Toss's delight, the Bullworker had found a purpose. He dismantled it with sadistic pleasure and gave the springs to Geoffrey, thus providing Geoffrey with the means to propel the flat iron through a right hook of considerable pressure.