Herculanium (5 page)

It was bad enough this stagnant traffic had prevented him from exiting when he needed to. It was bad enough that he had to sit in a puddle of his own urine for the past hour, because the traffic wouldn’t let him off an exit ramp to use a gasoline station’s restroom. But now, this huge television station van cut and crammed its way in front of him in traffic, nearly killing him in its maneuvers.

He just missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime, and it was now time to make someone accountable for this merciless evening.

The van sped away and transferred to another lane, placing many cars between them.

“Come back here, you road hog. You’re not going to get away that easily!”

Allan wiped his brow and squinted his eyes, making sure to keep track of the van as it appeared off and on between moving cars. He pumped his gas and flashed his high beams repeatedly, awkwardly changing lanes to keep up with the van and the speeding traffic.

“Those people are laughing at me,” he sobbed to himself. “Arrogant reporters, worthless human beings who thrive on reporting the suffering of humanity. They picked the wrong guy to fuck with tonight.”

He then pretended to pick up a phone and began speaking into the mouthpiece. “I’m going to be home a little late tonight, dear. I just gotta kill some people. No, no, it’s okay. They’re just reporters. They’re almost as bad as lawyers.”

Richard Peryson stared over the banquet table where he and his guests were about to dine, slowly surveying the pecking order of silverware and napkin placement. This was the first time he was going to sit down for dinner in the veterans’ hall, and it was only now that he could appreciate its ambience. Small, soft-lit chandeliers hung in measured distance from one end of the room to the other. Framed photographs lined the walls, creating a time line of friends, patrons, pilots, and planes that have graced this illustrious hall. Its stained wood motif gave it an old-world feel, and, coupled with huge bay windows and a towering brick fireplace, made it appear older than a hall just established after World War Two. The hall’s most noted attraction was the shell of a Japanese Zero warplane that hung high above the reception area, a sort of captured booty from the old enemy.

“This is for the veterans’ event, yes?” The busboy stood straight and tall, but struggled to clip his bow tie together to complete his tuxedo shirt and black pants.

“I’m sorry I’m late, sir. The traffic outside is just insane. There were so many cars driving around this area, I almost didn’t get in. I didn’t know you needed security guards to have a sit-down dinner.”

Peryson smiled at him in amusement. Not only did this young man remind him of himself in one of his first jobs, but he obviously didn’t have a clue as to what event this was that he was partaking in.

“You might want to check in with your boss, son. Jane’s over there in the corner. How many workers does Jane’s Catering, Inc. normally hire for events like this?”

“I’m not sure, sir. This is only my second time.”

Peryson smiled as the bus boy walked away. Polite boy, he thought. Who knows? That young man might become the president of a big company someday. Or head of promotions. Hell, he could have his job.

The other investors were still touring the small building. Luckily, McGinnis Promotions didn’t need to hire interpreters for the event. These corporate partners all spoke excellent English, as well as a few other languages that Peryson wasn’t versed in. He knew conversational Spanish, curse words notwithstanding. In one of a few rare occasions, he didn’t fully feel to have the complete upper hand. But as with all business dealings, most things were negotiable.

There were still so many details left to be planned. At times, the thought of flying a group of passengers into an orbiting space station just seemed so staggering to comprehend. Peryson and his company were just the tip of a massive iceberg of marketing and labor. Safety and insurance factors were continuously being modeled, along with NASA’s hesitant cooperation, EPA pollution standards on earth and around the space station, even the military build-up from neighboring hostile countries. Olympus had to be as international a project as possible, to downplay the image of the ugly American dominating the stars as well. Industrialized countries would understand, concluded Peryson. This was just about the natural progression of things, and nothing more.

He checked his watch and wiped its faceplate with his thumb. Preston Jones would soon be arriving, and the party could begin. McGinnis Promotions leaked out so many red herrings to its location that no one should know where it was going to be. But he had often wondered about corporate moles. He fired two people for disclosing event secrets two years prior, and he hadn’t had problems since. But it only took one person and a payoff for someone to sell out, he reminded himself. Hopefully, tonight would just be a peaceful dinner. The 978th Veterans Hall was on guarded private property, and should act as a filter against unwanted guests, comments, and surprises.

Peryson inhaled deeply and walked to the far side of the room, drawn by the pungent smell of Punjabi-seasoned shrimp hors’deuvres cooking in the partitioned kitchen area. A small army of helpers was busy at work slicing meat, topping crackers with exotic cheeses and spices, boiling soups, as well as prepping serving trays with doilies and arranging the foods to be served. It never ceased to amaze him how hard Jane’s workers labored to feed his corporate clients, and how their effort often went unnoticed. They worked harder in a few short hours than most of his business partners did in a week.

Not wanting to become a distraction, he picked up a toothpick and skewered a plump shrimp from a serving dish and quickly inserted it in his mouth. He then returned to the main dining hall and awaited his guests to return from touring the hall.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of his corporate partners. Behind each representative was a company eager to make the jump to space, and within each company were hundreds—maybe even thousands—of people. At least there was another American besides him that was part of the entourage, NASA spokesperson Emily Long. There were two Russian representatives, an engineer and past cosmonaut, whose names he could neither remember nor pronounce. The Indian and Japanese contingencies represented various Asian interests, from Malaysian computer parts to Philippine climatology research. There were dozens of peripheral issues that had to be updated with progress reports, including talks of an international committee to regulate commercial space travel.

Peryson could hear the murmur of conservation getting louder from the adjacent hallways, meaning the guests were returning to dine. The stage was set, and all that was missing was the guest of honor.

He stood in place with quiet anticipation.

* * *

Preston’s face was covered with a soft pastel glow, giving his smile a strangely sinister countenance. He always seemed to keep his face so close to the computer screen; it was phenomenal that his vision was as good as it was. But when it came to his hobby, he carried his handy laptop wherever he went. It was what kept him sane during games—and life’s adversity.

“Am I ever going to read that story?”

“I’ll let you read the rough draft of the first six chapters. I still have to clean it up a bit.” Preston remained unmoving in his seat, nearly crunched into a little ball as he typed away at a feverish pace.

“How many times have you changed the story’s premise? You’ve gone through at least four plot changes, and I haven’t read a single page.”

“Max, this is my first book. I want to make sure everything’s right. This isn’t basketball, you know. It’s very quiet and personal. This takes another set of skills.”

“I could never get into writing. Just never had the knack for it. But with the way you always run your mouth at the refs and the media, I’m not surprised.”

“If you had my high school creative writing teacher, I bet you’d be a writer, too. Mr. Pelligrini always encouraged us to express ourselves.”

“I’ve read some of your love notes from your senior year. No offense, but stick to playing hoops. If you really want to get published, hire someone to ghost write it for you and just edit it. I have a few publisher friends I can refer you to, if you like.”

“This is good stuff. Trust me.”

“You’re already making millions with basketball, so why waste your time with this? You have enough things to worry about. You still have areas you need to work on.”

Preston’s typing came to a screeching halt. Without blinking, his slowly closed his laptop shut and turned to Max.

“Why you gotta say something like that? Why you knocking my skills, man?”

“All I’m saying is…”

“No, let me tell
you
what you’re saying, Max,” said Preston in a terse tone. “You’re telling me that I’m still not the best in this sport. You also just told me that I suck in writing. I got news for you: I
am
the best. My stats say so, my endorsements say so, the League says so. And up until now, you said so, too. I don’t need your endorsement to prove my worth, in basketball, writing, anything. I have skills. I know every single player in this league, and none of them can touch me. Fuck all the greats, Max. I got so much stuff no one’s ever seen before, and I’m just starting. Five hundred years from now, when they do a retrospective of the history of basketball, the person on the cover is me.

“Now if I take the same drive and use it for writing, then it’s going to be good, too. No—it’s gonna be great. No one outside this limousine will ever hear that speech, because it’s bad PR. But when I’m bowing my head in humility in front of millions of people around the world and winning the next league award, in my head, I’m telling them all, ‘it’s about fucking time you gave this me, damn it. I deserve it.’”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” responded Max, “Dr. Jekyll has just been ejected from the game. Mr. Hyde will be his replacement. Tell me something I don’t already fucking know, Pres. First of all, you better curb that ego of yours. Second, you pay me to this, so you’re going to listen to what I have to say.

“Yes, you’re good, you’re very, very good. But the moment you stop trying to strive harder for things you don’t have, then you become complacent. Translation: your ass gets lazy. There are hundreds of guys waiting to take your place in this lottery, guys who at this moment is more deserving than you. You can’t always peak, my friend. Once something peaks, it levels off, then it actually drops. You better know where your place is right now in the big scheme of things.”

Max paused. Preston sat in his chair, rubbing his laptop lightly with his thumb.

“We’re old friends, Preston. You know I’m not putting you down. I’m just telling it like it is. If you don’t like it, then find someone else to be your ‘Yes Man’ to lie to you about everything. At least from me, take it or leave it, you’re getting it straight and honest. If you want to write, then write. For all I know, it could be the best novel ever written in the whole history of Mankind. But for right now, please try to concentrate on basketball, okay?”

Preston stared at Max for a few seconds. He could feel his frustration waning into a smile. He extended his arm to give him a fisted nudge.

“I do listen to the peanut gallery once in a while. This must be why I keep you on my payroll.”

“I think we’ve had this conversation way too many times. Give me a hint: what’s the story about?”

“It’s about a basketball player who goes up in space.”

“Oh,” said Max with a nod. “It’s an autobiography?”

“No, this is a fantasy story.”

“Oh,” repeated Max. “It’s about you.”

A resonant rumbling suddenly came from above, the unmistakable roar of massive jet engines descending down a runway. A long silhouette, pocked with multiple running lights, momentarily blanked out the stars above the freeway. The hurried traffic seemed to momentarily pause in transit, as if to give way to the passing giant.

Preston opened the limousine’s moon roof, stood up, and peered outside. The freeway around them was a glittering ocean of cars going in opposite directions, white on one side from headlights, and red on the other for brake lights. San Francisco International Airport lay just across the freeway, newly expanded and remodeled from years past. He could see other massive planes descending from other directions, along with new giants departing simultaneously into the night sky. With its wide new runways visible from the road, the airport itself looked like another city with its own encircling freeway system.

Max tugged at Preston’s shirt. “We’re almost there. It’s just past the freeway a few miles,” he yelled with his cupped hands.

“It’s a beautiful night,” said Preston with glee as he sat down. “Okay, they’ve switched the meeting place from the Bay Imperial to another location, right? Where are we going now?”

“We’re meeting the promoters at this veterans’ hall here in South Bay. The media’s been trying to figure out where this meeting’s going to be held at, so they can interview you and get the scoop. I bet half the cars on this freeway is out trying to figure where it’s going to be.”

“They don’t know where it is?”

“Nope, at the request of the promoters. This project has some major international ramifications, so we have to cover our bases. We’ve also thrown out a couple of red herrings to distract the media.”

“You can’t fool these guys, Max. How hard is it to figure out that a celebrity is going somewhere inside a limo? All they have to do is follow one. We’re probably being followed right now.”

“Leave that to me. Let me show you how we grunts in the trenches earn our pay.”

Max retrieved his cellphone from his suit pocket and entered a coded phone number. He wiped the condensation from the window and stared at the oncoming freeway overpasses. Preston could see him counting under his breath.

After a few seconds, Max smiled. “Atlas One, this is Atlas Two. Mark!”

Preston looked out the limousine’s rear window, then quickly looked out both opposite passenger windows. He was about to open the moon roof again to peek outside, but quickly Max stopped him. Preston understood why.

“You’re a good agent, Max. Damn, you’re good!”

* * *

Clay slammed his fist the dashboard in anger.

“What is it?!” screamed Micky.

“Where the fuck did all these limousines come from? They came outta nowhere, and now they’re flooding the freeway traffic. You think Preston is in one of these cars?”

Darienne leaned in from the back seat. “How do we find out if he is? Maybe they’re just other celebrities going to other parties.”

“They’re all leaving for different intersections, too,” added Micky. “You think we’re going to a false lead? Lilian, are you sure about where the post-party is going to be?”

“I’ve never been to the place before, child. But that’s where my contact told me it’s going to be. I’ve tried calling her, but the line’s busy. I honestly don’t know.”

“Look at all the limo’s license plates,” said Clay to his passengers. “All of them has some kind of Preston Jones reference on it. There’s no way in hell we’d be able to follow all of them.”

“We don’t have to,” asserted Micky. “Go with the original plan. We have to go with our strongest lead. They’re probably just trying to confuse the media. If we strike out, then we strike out.”

Micky rubbed her temples.

“Our exit is coming up, Mick. I’m going to take the one before it, and maybe we can sneak in somehow. This limo business is probably just a smoke screen to weed people out. I think we’re pretty close to the hall now.”