Housebroken (9 page)

“I’m married.”

“And how’s that working out?”

Blake refused to rise to the bait.

“Seriously, if she threw herself at you, what would you do? These are the kind of things I need to know! Have you ever cheated on your wife? Would you?”

“We need to work on some tact when it comes to business,” Blake said. “What’s appropriate, and what’s not.”

He opened the door to his office, met by a windowless room. Storage racks with cardboard boxes of toiletries and cleaning supplies greeted him. A weathered desk that looked like it had just been brought in from the street was propped against the wall, one leg shorter than the others. Two paint-stained metal fold-out chairs were propped against some open pipes.

No wonder JT had kept them so long. They had needed time to “prep” his office.

His boss hadn’t bought a word. If this partnership wasn’t something Blake could prove useful, this would be his last stop on his way out. Losing a relationship with Symbio would go much further than just costing him his job; it would be the first topple of a domino that could bring Blake’s whole world down.

How could he have thought they had won this battle? There was no partner, no big plan; it was all words, colorful words with empty promises.

He looked at the only “partner” in his office who had already taken one of the fold-out chairs and was sitting on it. Backward.

He was screwed.

They arrived home shortly after seven following a gruelingly unproductive day. Blake couldn’t remember the last time he had accomplished so little while putting in that kind of hours. At least he still had a job.

For now.

Conrad came running and leapt up onto Blake’s suit pants. Ordinarily, he’d have ordered the dog down. He just didn’t have it in him today.

He dropped his briefcase gently to the floor and bent down, petting her neck and rubbing behind her ears. “Connie, Connie, Connie. Did you miss me?”

The dog squirmed from beneath him, abandoning Blake for Joje as he came through the garage door.

Maybe Joje was right—dogs were stupid.

Jenna appeared in the hall, looking just as anxious to greet him. She rushed forward, embracing him.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine, just, happy you’re home safe.” She laughed, such a forced bit of mirth. Blake wasn’t sure what their day had entailed, but he had a feeling it was as bad as, or worse than, his own.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Day just . . . didn’t go as planned,” she said.

If Blake had once been able to read Jenna’s thoughts, as all married couples occasionally do, those days had long passed. Something had happened, but he wasn’t going to get it out of her. Not here anyway. Maybe not ever.

Adam sat on the couch with Drew, video game controllers in hand. Some soldier shoot-’em-up game, the kind that always made Blake nauseous just looking at it.

He finally has a friend.

The thought was beyond disturbing.

“How was your day?” Jenna asked, reaching out and touching his chest as if making sure he wasn’t a phantom.

“Productive,” Blake lied. “I think Joje—”

Damnit!
He had to stop thinking of him like that.

“Uh, George is going to be a fast learner.”

If Joje was bothered by the play on his lisp or name, he didn’t react.

“Think you can find him a position? Somewhere to start or maybe an interview with one of your dealers?”

Blake realized how little his wife understood of what he really did. “I hadn’t thought of that. It’s something we can explore.”

Joje’s smile appeared, like a stamp on his face. “We’ll see.”

“I’m starving,” Adam said from the couch without looking up.

“I wasn’t sure what to do for dinner,” Jenna said. “We didn’t have a chance to go by the store.”

Blake wanted to ask what they had done all day but knew it wasn’t the time.

“We never did celebrate,” Adam interjected.

Blake’s heart leapt just a little. On the drive home in bumper-to-bumper traffic, an idea had begun to crown—the birth of an idea was always messy. Blood, sinews, false starts between painful contractions. Unknowingly, Adam had just grabbed the forceps and was helping to now pull that baby out.

“I told Adam we’d go to dinner to celebrate the move. I completely forgot. Are we okay to do something like that?”

“You don’t need my permission. We’re here just to observe,” Joje said.

Now Blake just had to make sure that slime-covered newborn didn’t fall through his hands when it shot out.

They exited at Westlake Boulevard off the Ventura Freeway heading to The Promenade in Thousand Oaks. There were closer restaurants in Santa Monica, but Blake was looking for a real mall, somewhere with security cameras, crowds, and a lot of traffic. No one had objected to the drive.

He felt more aware behind the wheel than he had in a long time. It reminded him of when Adam had been born; the drive home from the hospital had been the first time in his life he had held his hands at ten and two. That feeling of carrying precious cargo, and knowing that somewhere, some force was determined to take it all away.

Jenna and Adam sat in the back with Drew between them. He stared at Blake in the rearview mirror, and Blake quickly looked away. Joje sat shotgun in the front.

One big, happy family.

They were enjoying one of the luxuries of living in California—a perpetual state of traffic no matter the hour. Blake wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. With cars in front, in back, and on both sides of the Escalade, he felt suddenly claustrophobic.

He glanced out his window at the coupe to his side. A young family. Two car seats in back. The woman in front laughed silently. Their lane started to move, a service van for an HVAC company replacing the coupe. A beefy Mexican, shirt sleeves rolled up, tattoo dripping down his forearm, drank a bottle of Coke Zero with the window rolled down. Enjoying the evening breeze.

It made Blake wonder how many times he had driven past someone trapped in the car next to him? A woman or man caught by an angry ex-lover? A child picked up by a stranger who had no intention of returning their stolen wares? A family that from all appearances, looked happy but that was really being dragged through hell by a psychotic kidnapper with a lisp?

It probably wasn’t a high number, but the law of averages meant it had occurred at least once, maybe more. Someone staring forlornly out their window, praying the car next to them would glance their way and realize their predicament.

He’d never look at driving the same way again.

“Are you always this melancholy on your way to dinner?” Joje asked. “Come on. What do you normally talk about?”

“No one talks in this family,” Adam said, one earbud hanging out.

The light turned yellow and Blake hit the brakes. The car ahead of him committed to a race with the camera flash that would be an indisputable ticket.

The idea that followed required action without contemplation, decisions made in the fraction of a second.

Just as the light turned red, Blake slammed his foot on the gas, gunning the engine. The Escalade jerked, catching itself then revving from first to third. A bright flash poured down from the lamp overhead. Blake’s action caused not one but three cars to honk from opposing lanes. In an instant of instinct winning over reason, Blake even pointed at Joje with his left hand for the picture, following through to scratch his stubbled cheek. They made it through the intersection without harm.

“Sorry,” Blake said as they cruised toward another line of cars waiting at the next intersection. “This traffic drives me insane.”

“That was smart,” Joje said, a hint of a smile betraying his curiosity. “Unfortunately, we’ll be long gone by the time that—memento—arrives in the mail.”

He held Blake’s phone up, the camera on back turned toward them. “If you wanted a picture to remember me by, you only had to ask. Smile!”

Joje’s left hand shot out, catching Blake on the side of the jaw and completely unprepared as the flash went off. The car swerved. Jenna screamed. Blake quickly corrected, pulling back into his lane as a truck’s horn swept past.

“I’m driving!” Blake shouted. His face was red. And throbbing. But not nearly as fast as his heart.

Joje was the picture of calm. “What better time to be reminded your actions have consequences.”

“I didn’t break any rules.”

“Let’s not squabble over definitions.”

They arrived at The Promenade a quarter past eight. The endless rows of parked vehicles never ceased to amaze Blake. The real drug of America—retail shopping.

He parked in the back next to a lamppost. If there were cameras, they’d be mounted near the lights.

Sounds of everyday life swarmed over Blake and his family . . . cars driving, parking, honking; the distant babble of conversation; a child screaming, parent scolding; a car radio blasting bass and little else—it all sounded so foreign, so out of place. Blake felt accosted by the normalcy of it all.

Life continues on in spite of our best efforts
, Blake thought. Walking next to Jenna, he felt the need to grab her hand, if only to remind himself that this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming. But even in his dreams, his guilt kept him from reaching out.

“Best behavior, everyone,” Joje said.

If this was going to work, it would be crucial to keep Joje’s guard down. “I’m sorry about earlier,” Blake said. “I shouldn’t have done that in the car. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Apology accepted.” Joje smiled. “Let’s go have some sushi!”

They were brought back to a corner booth at the far end of the restaurant. Joje insisted the family slide in to the middle with him and Drew on either end. Menus were placed on the table before the hostess quickly disappeared.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” Jenna said.

“Drew?” Joje said, proffering one hand out in open invitation. Drew stood, allowing Jenna to climb out. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Order some edamame,” Adam said, oblivious to the conversation. “And pot stickers.” His face was hidden behind the menu, and not for the first time, Blake was grateful for his son’s innocence.

“Sure,” Blake said. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he let out a long sigh. “I don’t have my phone.”

Adam lowered the menu, his face sinking.

“What’s wrong?” Joje asked.

“It’s nothing,” Blake said.

“Dad does this thing on his phone where he can translate our order to Chinese or Japanese. It’s fun. The waiters get a kick.”

“Well, let’s do it.” Joje brought out Blake’s phone. The soft glow of the blinking light confirming messages and e-mails were going unchecked. “What do I need to do?”

“It’s . . .” Blake paused. His head throbbed with every pulse of light blaring from his phone. “It’s kind of tricky. Not just a push of a button.”

Joje flipped the phone around in his hand end over end.

“We’ll just order regular,” Blake said. “It’s fine.”

“Then we won’t be following what we really do, how we really act,” Adam said.

Blake could have kissed him.

Adam continued, “Just set it to airplane mode so he can’t make a call.”

And the kiss was being retracted.

The information gathered by the Cyborg included much more than what was done on the phone; every conversation that took place around it was sent out to some off-site server of Symbio’s for analysis, part of their predictive algorithms. However, Blake was fairly certain little human interaction took place within that analysis. He had been hoping for the chance to blind copy that data to one of his contacts—any of his contacts—to send out, in effect, a message in a digital bottle. Airplane mode would effectively set his plan to a crash course, preventing any data from moving to or from the phone.

“How do I do that?” Joje asked.

Adam reached across the table, grabbing the phone from Joje. Surprisingly, Joje let him have it. He toggled through a few screens, finding the mode setting and shutting down all communication with outside towers.

There had to be another way.

“See? The little slash through the phone at the top?” Adam said.

Joje took the phone, handing it to Blake. “I’m trusting you.”

“I understand,” Blake said, wondering just what Joje’s “twust” entailed.

Jenna and Drew returned, Jenna moving back in next to Blake without a word.

“Any problems?” Joje asked.

“She wouldn’t let me wipe,” Drew said.

“There’s always next time,” Joje replied.

Blake seethed inside. He had to do something. As he keyed in their orders for appetizers and drinks, he realized Adam may have come to the rescue without even knowing it.

When the server finally arrived, Blake had everything ready. He asked if he spoke Japanese. The server said he did. Setting the language to Japanese, he hit the translate button. After the three-second delay, their order was spoken in perfect Japanese by a surprisingly warm and interactive voice. The server grinned and made the appropriate notes on his pad, asking if there was anything else.

No, but there would be.

Joje was ecstatic. “You have to show me how that works! This could revolutionize the world . . . no one will need to study a foreign language ever again!”

Blake nodded along. It wouldn’t “
wevowooshinize
” the world but, as Adam had said, it was fun. As orders were finalized, Blake keyed them once again into his system. The message before the order was the only one he was really concerned with getting right.

With the arrival of the appetizers, the server stood at the ready for their order. “Wait, wait,” he said. “My boss coming.”

Perfect
, Blake thought.

“I wanna do it,” Joje said. “Let me do it, Bwake. I don’t want you doing it.”

Blake pressed a button, quickly hiding the message that would be translated. He handed the phone back, his fingers lingering on it a second too long.

“Where’s the order?” Joje asked.

“Just hit the button on the upper right that says translate.”

The server’s manager arrived, a stout middle-aged woman with a large mole on one of her double chins. The server told her she had to listen to this. He then looked at Blake expectantly. “Can you do Cantonese?”