Jennifer Government: A Novel (2 page)

“And now it’s time to cash in. On Friday we’re gonna dump four hundred thousand pairs on the market at two and a half grand each.”

“Which, since they cost us—what was it?”

“Eighty-five.”

“Since they cost us eighty-five cents to manufacture, gives us
a gross margin of around one billion dollars.” He looked at Vice-President John. “It’s a brilliant campaign.”

“It’s really just common sense,” John said. “But here’s the thing, Hack: if people realize every mall in the country’s got Mercurys, we’ll lose all that prestige we’ve worked so hard to build. Am I right?”

“Yeah.” Hack hoped he sounded confident. He didn’t really understand marketing.

“So you know what we’re going to do?”

He shook his head.

“We’re going to shoot them,” Vice-President John said. “We’re going to kill anyone who buys a pair.”

Silence. “What?” Hack said.

The other John said, “Well, not everyone, obviously. We figure we only have to plug…what did we decide? Five?”

“Ten,” Vice-President John said. “To be safe.”

“Right. We take out ten customers, make it look like ghetto kids, and we’ve got street cred coming out our asses. I bet we shift our inventory within twenty-four hours.”

“I remember when you could always rely on those little street kids to pop a few people for the latest Nikes,” Vice-President John said. “Now people get mugged for Reeboks, for Adidas—for
generics
, for Christ’s sake.”

“The ghettos have no fashion sense anymore,” the other John said. “I swear, they’ll wear anything.”

“It’s a disgrace. Anyway, Hack, I think you get the point. This is a groundbreaking campaign.”

“Talk about edgy,” the other John said. “This
defines
edgy.”

“Um…” Hack said. He swallowed. “Isn’t this kind of…illegal?”

“He wants to know if it’s illegal,” the other John said, amused. “You’re a funny guy, Hack. Yes, it’s illegal, killing people without their consent, that’s very illegal.”

Vice-President John said, “But the question is: what does it cost? Even if we get found out, we burn a few million on legal fees, we get fined a few million more… bottom-line, we’re still way out in front.”

Hack had a question he very much didn’t want to ask. “So… this contract…what does it say I’ll do?”

The John beside him folded his hands. “Well, Hack, we’ve explained our business plan. What we want you to do is…”

“Execute it,” Vice-President John said.

Until she stood in front of them, Hayley didn’t realize how many of her classmates were blond. It was like a beach out there. She’d missed the trend. Hayley would have to hotfoot it to a hairdresser after school.

“When you’re ready,” the teacher said.

She looked at her note cards and took a breath. “Why I Love America, by Hayley McDonald’s. America is the greatest group of countries in the world because we have freedom. In countries like France, where the Government isn’t privatized, they still have to pay tax and do whatever the Government says, which would really suck. In USA countries, we respect individual rights and let people do whatever they want.”

The teacher jotted something in his folder. McDonald’s-sponsored schools were cheap like that: at Pepsi schools, everyone had notebook computers. Also their uniforms were much better. It was so hard to be cool with the Golden Arches on your back.

“Before USA countries abolished tax, if you didn’t have a job, the Government took money from working people and gave it to you. So, like, the more useless you were, the more money you got.” No response from her classmates. Even the teacher didn’t
smile. Hayley was surprised: she’d thought that one was a crack-up.

“But now America has all the best companies and all the money because everyone works and the Government can’t spend money on stupid things like advertising and elections and making new laws. They just stop people stealing or hurting each other and everything else is taken care of by the private sector, which everyone knows is more efficient.” She looked at her notes: yep, that was it. “Finally I would like to say that America is the greatest group of countries in the world and I am proud to live in the Australian Territories of the USA!”

A smattering of applause. It was the eighth talk this period: she guessed it was getting harder to work up enthusiasm for capitalizm. Hayley headed for her seat.

“Hold it,” the teacher said. “I have questions.”

“Oh,” Hayley said.

“Are there any positive aspects to tax?”

She relaxed: a gimme question. “Some people say tax is good because it gives money to people who don’t have any. But those people must be lazy or stupid, so why should they get other people’s money? Obviously the answer is no.”

The teacher blinked. He made a note. That must have been an impressive answer, Hayley thought. “What about social justice?”

“What?”

“Is it fair that some people should be rich while others have nothing?”

She shifted from one foot to the other. She was just remembering: this teacher had a thing about poor people. He was always bringing them up. “Um, yeah, it’s fair. Because if I study really hard for a test and get an A and Emily doesn’t and fails”—renewed interest from the class; Emily raised blond eyebrows—“then it’s not fair to take some of my marks and give them to her, is it?”

The teacher frowned. Hayley felt a flash of panic. “Another thing, in non-USA countries they want everyone to be the same, so if your sister is born blind, then they blind you, too, to make it even. But how unfair is that? I would much rather be an American than a European Union…person.” She gave the class a big smile. They clapped, much more enthusiastically than before. She added hopefully, “Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Relief! She started walking. A cute boy in the third row winked at her.

The teacher said, “Although, Hayley, they don’t really blind people in non-USA countries.”

Hayley stopped. “Well, that’s kind of hypocritical, isn’t it?”

The class cheered. The teacher opened his mouth, then shut it. Hayley took her seat.
Kick ass
, she thought. She had aced this test.

Hack sat in traffic, biting his nails. This had not been a good day. He was beginning to think that visiting the marketing floor for a cup of water was the worst mistake he’d ever made.

He turned into a side street and parked his Toyota. It rattled angrily and let loose a puff of black smoke. Hack really needed a new car. Maybe if this job paid off, he could move out of St. Kilda. He could get an apartment with some space, maybe some natural light—

He shook his head angrily. What was he thinking? He wasn’t going to
shoot
anyone. Not even for a better apartment.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and let himself in. Violet was sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor with her notebook computer in her lap. Violet was his girlfriend. She was the only unemployed person he had ever met, not counting homeless
people who asked him for money. She was an entrepreneur. Violet was probably going to be rich one day: she was smart and determined. Sometimes Hack wasn’t sure why they were together.

He dropped his briefcase and shrugged off his jacket. The table was littered with bills. Hack hadn’t bargained very well in his last performance evaluation and it was really biting him now. “Violet?”

“Mmm?”

“Can we talk?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. Hack waited. Violet didn’t like being disturbed during her work. She didn’t like being disturbed at all. She was short and thin and had long brown hair, which made her look much more fragile than she was. “What’s up?”

He sat on the sofa. “I did something stupid.”

“Oh, Hack, not again.”

Hack had missed a couple of turnoffs on the way home lately: last Tuesday he’d gotten himself onto a premium road and eaten through eleven dollars in tolls before he found an exit. “No, something really stupid.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I got offered some work… some marketing work—”

“That’s great! We could really use the extra money.”

“—and I signed a contract without reading it.”

Pause. “Oh,” Violet said. “Well, it might be okay—”

“It says I have to kill people. It’s some kind of promotional campaign. I have to, um, kill ten people.”

For a moment she said nothing. He hoped she wasn’t going to shout at him. “I’d better look at that contract.”

He dropped his head.

“You don’t have a copy?”

“No.”

“Oh,
Hack.”

“I’m sorry.”

Violet chewed her lip. “Well, you can’t go through with it. The Government’s not as pussy as people think. They’d get you for sure. But then, you don’t know what the penalties in that contract are… I think you should go to the Police.”

“Really?”

“There’s a station on Chapel Street. When are you meant to…do it?”

“Friday.”

“You should go. Right now.”

“Okay. You’re right.” He picked up his jacket. “Thanks, Violet.”

“Why does this kind of thing always happen to you, Hack?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He felt emotional. He shut the door carefully behind him.

T
he station was only a few blocks away, and as it came into view he began to feel hopeful. The building was lit up in blue neon, with THE POLICE in enormous letters and a swirling light above that. If anyone could help him out of this situation, it would be someone who worked in a place like this.

The doors slid open and he walked up to the reception desk. A woman in uniform—either a real cop or a receptionist dressed in theme, Hack didn’t know which—smiled. Playing over the PA system was the song from their TV ads, “Every Breath You Take.”

“Good evening, how can I help you?”

“I have a matter I’d like to discuss with an officer, please.”

“May I ask the nature of your problem?”

“Um,” he said. “I’ve been contracted to kill someone. Some people, actually.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows rose a fraction, then settled. Hack felt relieved. He didn’t want to be chastised by the receptionist. “Take a seat, sir. An officer will be right with you.”

Hack dropped into a soft blue chair and waited. A few minutes later, a cop came out and stopped in front of him. Hack rose.

“I’m Senior Sergeant Pearson Police,” the man said. He shook Hack’s hand firmly. He had a small, trim mustache but otherwise looked pretty capable. “Please accompany me.”

Hack followed him down a plushly carpeted hallway to a small, professional-looking meeting room. On the wall were pictures of cops escorting crims out of buildings, in front of courthouses, and busting protestor heads outside some corporate building. As Pearson took a seat, Hack caught a glimpse of handcuffs and a pistol.

“So what’s your problem?” He flipped open a notebook.

Hack told him the whole story. When he was done, Pearson was silent for a long time. Finally Hack couldn’t take it anymore. “What do you think?”

Pearson pressed his fingers together. “Well, I appreciate you coming forward with this. You did the right thing. Now let me take you through your options.” He closed the notebook and put it to one side. “First, you can go ahead with this Nike contract. Shoot some people. In that case, what we’d do, if we were retained by the Government or one of the victims’ representatives, is attempt to apprehend you.”

“Yes.”

“And we
would
apprehend you, Hack. We have an eighty-six percent success rate. With someone like you, inexperienced, no backing, we’d have you within hours. So I strongly recommend you do not carry out this contract.”

“I know,” Hack said. “I should have it read it, but—”

“Second, you can refuse to go through with it. That would expose you to whatever penalties are in that contract. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you they could be harsh. Very harsh indeed.”

Hack nodded. He hoped Pearson wasn’t finished.

“Here’s your alternative.” Pearson leaned forward. “You subcontract the slayings to us. We fulfill your contract, at a very
competitive rate. As you probably know from our advertisements, your identity is totally protected. If the Government comes after us, it’s not your problem.”

Hack said, “That’s my only alternative?”

“Well, if you had a copy of the contract, I’d tell you to go talk to our Legal branch. But you don’t, do you?”

“Urn, no.” He hesitated. “How much would it be to…”

Pearson blew out his cheeks. “Depends. You don’t need specific individuals done, right? Just people who buy these Mercury shoes.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s cheaper. We can make sure we don’t take out anyone with means. For, you know, retribution. And you need ten capped, so there’s a bulk discount. We could do this for, say, one-fifty.”

“One-fifty what?”

“Grand,” Pearson said. “One-fifty grand, Hack, what do you think?”

He felt despair. “I’m a Merc Officer, I earn thirty-three a

year—”

“Come on, now,” Pearson said, looking pained. “Don’t start that.”