Oversight (9 page)

“How’s business?” Sam asks without really wanting to know.

“It’s like I’m invisible,” the man says with a Spanish accent.

Sam does a double take and grins.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just thought you were Iranian or something. You know, with the falafels and all.”

“You want to know why I’m selling falafels?” the man asks. “Because I can’t afford to license the burrito recipe. The Mexican Food Marketing Association has its agents scouring the streets for unlicensed burritos. They come around with their dogs. I don’t stand a chance.”

Sam nods sympathetically. Just getting a pushcart license from the city requires extreme valor. The tangle of intellectual property issues could only make the experience more frustrating. “You could sell a derivative product and call it something else,” he suggests.

The man musters a skeptical look. “A what?”

“Like they do with wraps. Burritos in everything but name. So a few ingredients are different. You register a recipe with, say, bacon and call it a ‘bacquito’ or something like that.”

“A bacon burrito? I don’t know, man.”

“Bacquito, not burrito. You’ve not selling burritos. That’s what you say when the inspectors come by. Now, you can always sell a bacon-free bacquito. Variations are allowed; it’s a loophole. Your recipe just has to be registered and branded differently.”

A smile creeps across the man’s face. “Is that true?”

“Absolutely. But you should consult a gastronomic licensing attorney, to make sure they don’t find some other way to get you.”

“Could you recommend someone?” The falafel vendor sounds unsure.

“Tara Skate. She’s a partner over at Mallard & Starling. She helped a friend of mine who was trying to get around the caramel cartel. The guy ended up selling confectionary caulking as a novelty item because Food Science has a lock on shelf space for sweets. It did pretty well for a while, until some illiterate sued because he couldn’t read the label that warned him not to use it for construction.”

The man reaches over to shake Sam’s hand. “I will do that. Thank you. You come by again, lunch is free. My name is Hugo.”

“Sam.”

In a pedestrian alley half a block up, Sam buys ten minutes from a bench meter, sits, and busies himself with lunch.

Across the alley, a ‘gent stands motionless, arm outstretched. Quite tall, he’s wearing a tattered football jersey. Wads of duct tape hug his knees. A donation router sits at his feet and a makeshift cardboard visor perches atop his black plastic sunglasses.

How to interpret the man’s gesture? The rigidity of his body suggests an accusation. At the end of the line described by the ‘gent’s arm is an office building. Rather than reflecting sunlight, its windows display a mosaic ad for The Wizard of Oz, recently recompiled with new stars.

While Sam ponders the possibilities, a young man in a suit approaches. He’s wearing the same black plastic sunglasses—the very kind Amir was selling. He looks at the window array and laughs. Sam is close enough to hear the man authorize a donation. The ‘gent nods and the young man continues on his way.

Strange. It’s like the two shared a private joke. “Marilyn,” he says, reaching for his eyepiece. “Play an Auglite glasses ad for me.”

“Did I hear a ‘please’?” she asks.

Sam lets his head fall back in exaggerated despair. “No, Marilyn. I was issuing a command. ‘Please’ is an optional string.”

“You treat me like a dog,” she complains, then starts the clip.

Unmoved, Sam is nonetheless surprised by her choice of words. He’s certain she picked that phrase up from a film he watched last week. A neat trick—and an unnerving one.

The ad begins. A teen on an earthboard shushes through suburbia. The perspective becomes his: bland buildings and fake lawns.

An overwrought VO begins: “Three hundred ninety-nine dollars. For that you get the world.”

Hip-dub electronica kicks in and the landscape morphs into a game world, with all the adolescent angst motifs: rivers of lava, pointless phallic spires, brooding darkness, and gothic excess.

“Auglites let you dress the world your way. Rewrite it to suit your tastes.”

Hell is banished and order is restored—but only for a moment. Graffiti scars suburbia, a testament to the maker’s wrath written not with flood, fire, or plague, but with spray paint.

“It’s your world, after all.”

A song: “Can you see the real me? Can you? Can you?”

Sam can’t quite recall the commercial in which the music originally appeared, but he knows the license must have cost a fortune because it’s from the Vivendi Universal library.

What’s astounding is how well these glasses maintain their illusion regardless of changes in the wearer’s position and perspective.

“The real you. The real world. It’s all yours to reinvent. Auglites’ ultra-wideband mesh network gives you the power to rewrite reality. Using any government-approved graphics engine, you can create a new skin for the world—or you can use any of our sponsored templates.”

The landscape in the ad changes again. Welcome to Beer World, home of buxom blondes and bubbly brew and not much else. Subtitle: “Brought to you by The Beverage Group.”

“And if virtual playmates aren’t enough, just invite your friends to join your private network.”

Three adolescents in a car bounce their heads to the raucous beat of “My Way.” Diving into their eyeglasses, the scene morphs into a stadium concert, the three kids still nodding in unison. On stage is the beloved animatronic metal band Humania, playing—quite literally—by the numbers. Their Rhodies, leather-clad engineering PhD’s, watch anxiously from the sidelines, ready with an extra guitar string—or band member—should anything go awry.

“Auglites. Seeing is believing.”

Fade to black. A lengthy user license and disclaimer follows. Between the legal jargon and the speed at which the words scroll by, the document is barely comprehensible.

Sam recognizes some boilerplate about copyrighted material, indemnification, reverse engineering prohibitions, and such. It all says the same thing: Your world, our terms.

Sam stows his eyepiece. “Marilyn, what company manufactures Auglites?”

“Extronics.”

A contract manufacturer. “What company licenses the technology?”

“Sinotech,” she replies.

“Is Sinotech based in China?”

“Yes. You know, China is lovely this time of year, when dust storms shroud the landscape in mystery and everyone dons a mask. Experience the romance of the amber sun. Marvel at the Beijing Dust Festival. Book now and your first night’s stay is free. Come see China in a different light.”

Like Mako’s rose-colored glasses.

Sam is dumbfounded. Could Marilyn have stumbled on a motive? Viewing something in a different light can be wonderful. Or terrible, as when a client sees pictures of a partner’s suspected infidelity. It sets murders in motion, on occasion.

A good theory but for one thing: It’s a motive that exists only in theory. There’s nothing linking Dr. Mako with Sinotech or its glasses. Except maybe Harris Cayman. As the founder of Synthelegy, Cayman must take an interest in the impact of Auglites on the advertising business.

How Emil Caddis fits into all this, Sam hasn’t a clue. Maybe Cayman will have some answers.

“Marilyn, locate Harris Cayman.”

“Please be more specific.”

“Locate Harris Cayman, the founder of Synthelegy.”

“That information has been licensed to a withholding group through the end of the year. You will have to negotiate with Mr. Cayman’s agent if you wish to buy it.”

“What’s the bid price?”

“Ten million dollars.”

“I guess he can afford his privacy.” The seating meter on Sam’s bench reaches zero and dull steel quills emerge slowly from the seat and backrest. Time to move on.

Synthelegy makes its home only a few blocks away, at Embarcadero and Harrison, in a brick building originally owned by a twentieth-century coffee company, Hills Brothers. A conscious choice probably, to select the location for its association with the bygone era of family businesses; such evidently modest beginnings would project an image of community rather than dominion. Sam thinks the world’s leading advertising company deserves something more messianic: a tower of steel and stone with origins obscure to all but scholars of architecture.

The wind has picked up, teasing trash from the grasp of a sanitation bot. The little machine tracks the debris and scurries after it, only to be frustrated by another gust.

Sam watches the bot’s clumsy ballet for a moment, then heads for the entrance. The first set of doors close behind him. The blast doors up ahead remain closed while security sensors size him up.

“Welcome to Synthelegy, Mr. Crane,” says a voice that could be human or machine. “Please proceed to reception.”

The doors part and Sam embarks across the elegant lobby, trying to muster some measure of mental focus to bluff his way in. The young woman who greets him looks as if she’s stepped out of an ad. She introduces herself as Anna.

When Sam asks to see Mr. Cayman, she seems genuinely surprised. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

“Of course. I’d hardly have flown in from New York otherwise.”

Anna’s gaze flits to her desktop screen. She asks for Cayman’s agent. After a brief sotto-voce discussion, she offers Sam a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, but we have no record of any appointment. Would you like to speak directly to his agent?”

Sam glares. “I arranged to meet with Harris personally,” he insists, as much to convince himself as Anna. “He told me to be here at 12:30.”

Anna looks down at her screen, then up again, her expression hardening. Sam knows he’s sunk.

“Nice try, Mr. Crane,” she says. “If you’ll head back the way you came, I won’t have to call security.”

A sheepish grin. “Look, I’m a spec. I’m investigating a murder. Two murders, really.”

Anna drums her nails on the desk, impatient.

Sam continues, “It’d really help if you’d let me in to see Mr. Cayman.”

“Mr. Crane—”

“Sam. Call me Sam.”

“Sam,” she concedes, “lots of people want to see Mr. Cayman. Mostly he doesn’t want to see them.”

“But—”

“Take it up with his agent.”

A sigh. Sam turns to go, then turns back. “Would you go out with me? I’m thinking dinner or something.”

Without missing a beat, Anna shakes her head. “No, I’d rather not.”

“Is it the haircut?” Sam asks with a grin, recalling Luis’ comment.

There’s a hint of an answering smile on Anna’s lips. “A bit,” she says. “Mostly it’s the lying. Not a good thing in my book. If you’d been straightforward, I might have mentioned that Mr. Cayman is in Havanaland for the rest of the month.”

Grinning wider, Sam nods. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sam backpedals slowly, hands in his pockets. “I meant what I said about going out.”

“I know. That part of your voice-stress readout looked honest.”

His jacket collar raised against the wind, Sam walks back along the waterfront toward his motorcycle. Out on the bay, waves flash white-capped smiles. A lone windsurfer skims the surface, accompanied by the slap of water against his board.

The ‘gent ostensibly guarding Sam’s bike has his attention elsewhere. He’s market-testing a series of signs scrawled on cardboard to drivers hunting for parking. “Which of these reads best?” he croaks at Sam, his three box tops fanned in his hand as if they were oversize playing cards.

“’Protected parking, inquire within,’” Sam says. “The other two sound like threats.”

The ‘gent’s half-gloved hand pursues the source of an itch through dreadlocked hair. “But that’s the idea.”

“It’s much more ominous as a hint of danger,” Sam insists, donning his helmet.

“I’ve been getting a good response with ‘Pay me now or wash your car later.’ It’s subtle without being obtuse.”

“Whatever works.”

Irate, the ‘gent gestures with his signs. “I’m trying to improve your customer experience and you’re not paying attention!”

“Sorry, but I’m busy.” Sam guns the engine and rolls into the street.

A wounded look creases the man’s face. “It’s not like I’ve got all day either.”

Smith & Sons Discount Afterlife sits at the corner of Eighth and Bryant in the shadow of the Interstate 80 overpass. It occupies a large building that once housed a public television station, an auto-parts wholesaler, and most recently a multiplex cinema. A sign proclaims “Since 1964” even though the mortuary is only fifteen years old; it’s a historically protected piece of noncommercial signage. In a further deception, Smith & Sons doesn’t actually deal with the dead. It farms out the nasty business of managing corpses to subcontractors a few miles south in Colma, where zoning allows cremation, casket irradiation, and sponsored post-mortem repurposing for the poor.

With only five minutes to spare, Sam rushes inside, his bike crammed into the sliver of customer parking out front. The somber-but-attractive greeter recognizes Sam on sight; she would have studied dossiers of the day’s mourners the night before.

“Welcome, Mr. Crane,” she says, hands clasped at her waist. She’s lit as if she’s being filmed in close-up, with a halo of backlight, a warm fill, and dime-sized follow-spots on her eyes. “Your loss is our gain, and that makes us feel terrible. We hope you’ll accept our sympathy as you bid farewell to your friend, Jacob Gaur.”

Sam appreciates the sentiment, as crass as it is confessional. “Thanks,” he says. The size of the place is bewildering. “Where do I go?”

“Your service begins four minutes from now in Theater Seventeen.” She points the way. “It’s just ahead to your left, past the concession stand. We have water, tissues, and just about anything else you might require.”

The arrival of more mourners prompts Sam to move along. He ambles down the corridor, squinting at the skylights above. Over the intercom, a gentle voice calls out, “Pedro Buey, please come to Theater Seven. Pedro Buey, your loved one will be departing in three minutes.”

The concession stand bears a curious resemblance to a border checkpoint. Tuxedo-clad baristas pull espressos for the weary while roving sales girls push mineral water, candy, and chemorettes—cigarettes fortified with prophylactic anticancer drugs. Tissues are gratis.