Sour Grapes
#2 of Sallegar
He never took the opportunity to actually look up before. It really was a hole in the wall. The double espresso was placed carefully next to the wrist of his suit coat, louder than the arigato and doumo exchanged under breath. Jesse normally hung his shoulder-length hair around his face like an iron curtain of ignorance, oblivious to the time, place, and situation he begrudgingly placed himself in those few months ago. Today was different, though. Very new.
A solid hand clapped Jesse on the back, the hand's owner pulling up a seat next to him at the bar. "You're back!"
Jesse met the ex-pat and his particular scent with a nod, "Yup, here just about every morning." The ex-pat produced a perfect smile, the kind produced from a cross-section of wealth Jesse was familiar with perhaps only on a professional level.
"That so. Say, don't mind me sayin', but it looks like you took my advice, eh?"
Jesse frowned, "I'm sorry, I don't understand." Another clap on the back, another wave of gin-infused oxygen.
"About the ladies! I could tell you needed a good lay, looks like you got one, and I'm glad to have been a part of it." The ex-pat turns to the barkeep, "I'll have what he's having, Master, but make mine with Grand Marnier. Hair of the dog, am I right?"
Jesse grinned quietly. "You have no idea," sipping his espresso.
The ex-pat was indistinguishably above average: the build of a mildly-competitive cyclist, hair the color of someone with a ring on his finger, which he did. He began to take off his light grey suit coat, tossed it onto the stool next to him. Jesse cocked an eyebrow.
"How old is that Patek?"
"This?" He fussed with the strap, taking it off, "Looks like you've got an eye for watches. It's from twenty ten."
Jesse delicately took the timepiece from the ex-pat. He flipped it over after examining the front, looking at the exposed back of the watch. A pause.
"Grand complication. A tourbillon, a minute repeater, and a perpetual calendar. Rose gold, brown alligator leather strap." You're a very wealthy man. Jesse handed the watch back to the ex-pat. "May I ask what you do?"
He gave a large chuckle as the snapped the gold clasp on his watch. Maybe he was from Texas, or the mid-west. But probably both. "I'm in global markets, commodities. Yourself?"
Jesse smiled a little, "When you autospeculate on ten-year values for microeconomies, do you run Calico or RE?"
The ex-pat grinned, "Both, but the secret is trusting neither. Jeff Small." He extended the hand with the watch. Jesse liked that he used his right hand.
"Jesse, White. I'm responsible for the trend analysis that gives Calico the minute value that it does provide." Jesse pushed the paper cup backward toward the espresso machine, nodding at the man behind the counter.
"That's good, Jesse, that's good. Funny enough, Jesse, but I'm in Japan on business myself."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I'm here scouting talent for a new requirement we have just now opening up. Why don't you go freshen up, and I'll have a car waiting for you in an hour. We're on the other end of Shibuya, so it's a bit of a hop from that condo PhabrikantContosso has you in."
Jesse looked at Jeff square in the eyes, body and mind fully alert. He knew Jeff's play. Jeff already knew who Jesse was, down to detailed minutia. Jeff was near the top of a steep pyramid, and Jesse was low hanging fruit: a brilliant scientist, but young enough to not have the, in this case, literal protection of tenure. Jesse hadn't made it into the inner circles at his current gig, he didn't have company secrets. He didn't need a bodygaurd. He didn't need to be protected.
If Jesse didn't play his cards right, namely by saying 'no,' he'd be sour grapes; but what's worse, Jesse would be rendered unhireable within hours. Namely dead. Not that a corporate kidnapping was the worst way to tender a resignation.
"Why don't I just come with you?"
***
"I'm an ass-man, myself. Mimosa?" Jeff passed a flute to Jesse. The Rolls was spacious, cream-colored leather, lacquered cherry accents. Tokyo blurred-by outside of the dark windows.
"I figured that you might respond differently to this... level... of coming out." Jesse sipped the drink. He nervously fiddled with a knob of unknown function in a seat console next to him.
Jeff threw a leg over his knee and shrugged, "Is it coming out if we already know? So you fuck dogs-- boy dogs. What's important is that it's not a particularly expensive habit, we can accommodate it easily, and the blackmail is built it. Win-win-win, I'd say." Jeff smiled, winking. The car went over a speedbump, and descended into an eerily-lit underground garage. "So let's get down to brass tacks. We're struggling with a particular nuance in the Orenson-Willshire paradigm."
Jesse leaned forward to soak in the details, but the car came to a stop.
"This's us." Jeff smiled. The part of Jesse's brain responsible for nervous faux pas like cursing in the wrong company, apologizing excessively, and making sure that fucking dogs, boy dogs, isn't a deal-breaker, became particularly active during times of intense fear. Jesse was lucidly aware of this as he smiled back.
The car door was opened from the outside by a white glove. Jesse followed Jeff into the stale air of the underground car park. Jeff gestured in the direction they were to walk.
"So, the Orenson-Willshire paradigm. I'm familiar with it, but you're an expert." Another door, to an elevator. Gilded as a matter of course. NFC device, a phone perhaps, activated the lighting behind an out-of-place touch panel. Ninety-eight was indicated, and up, Jesse imagined but not felt, the elevator began to progress. "You'll be responsible for a team of six whose first goal will be to finish Orenson-Willshire."
"I pick the staff and it can be done in six months, tops." Jesse commented. Fuck.
"Now that's the spirit, Jesse!" Jeff beamed. A clap on the back.
The elevator opened to an expanse of concrete. An empty room the size of a small warehouse, two stories tall, with windows from floor to ceiling. Jeff walked forward into the room, Jesse in tow. Jeff gestured to the room, smiling.
"Truth be told Jesse, we see a leader in you. Take a seat, let's go over this dossier, and we'll talk benefits."
Jesse saw four men in dark suits returning to the perimeter of the room after setting out a large folding table and two chairs. Jeff didn't pay the sudden appearance of the furniture in the room any mind, taking a seat. Motioning towards the second chair. Staring at the chair for a second, Jesse reminded himself: don't be the fox's sour grapes.
Don't wind up dead.
***
The gilded elevator closed silently. Jesse was alone. The sun was setting over Shibuya, a peach-colored haze settling over the distant mountains. He walked over to the table, looking at the neat stack of documents and parcels he was to look over. He turned his head to the elevator.
"No escape..." Jesse muttered, thinking about how Jeff had explained his situation. Which is to say, he didn't. The documents did. Jesse straightened and aligned the stack of envelopes on his left, sighed, and gingerly examined the first, a letter-sized envelope. So far as the Japanese government, and PhabC, was concerned, Jesse had packed up his apartment, boarded a flight to Argentina, as was now a full-time Hare Krishna. Which is to say, a Jesse-look-alike was compensated to shave his head, put on some orange robes and act as a courier for Jesse's newly-rekeyed biometric US Passport from Tokyo to Buenos Aires.
Jesse frowned, then tore at the letter's tamper-evident seal, sliding his finger down the short-end, tearing a ragged edge. He removed a wafer-thin, transparent sheet of acrylic the width and length of the envelope.
Inset in the acrylic, secured with thin tabs of breakable plastic, was some kind of bank card. Jesse placed the acrylic sheet down, and removed a letter.
Jesse analyzed the document. Corporate letterhead, terms, conditions, three tables, two pages, last page nothing but a footer. Jeff had said that who he was working for was about the least important part of his employment. Which was interesting. Not particularly Americorporate, Zaibatsu, or otherwise. Not very... integrated.
The logo was a clean, sans-serif type treatment, all upper-case. "Karsh and Hagan?" A law firm? No, Jesse decided, this was too clean for a law firm. Some kind of group with less manufactured aesthetics. Jesse scanned the document, and by the time he finished reading it, he wore an expression that mixed grief with excitement.
Jesse now commanded what amounted to the wealth of a small, but wealthy nation.
The next time Jesse looked out the window, setting down the final document in the stack, undulating waves of a neon night glared at him through the massive windows. An hour ago, Jesse felt minuscule. He now felt enormous in the warehouse-sized flat.
Jesse sat up slowly from the metal chair, and stiffly stepped to find the computer terminal that was in one of the cardboard parcels behind the folding table. He needed to get online. He scanned over labels until he found a shipping manifest that seemed to add up.
He hastily box-cuttered the foam and plastic assembly, carefully saving the documentation, and removed a rounded matte-black metallic rectangle from its sheik cardstock packaging, placing it gingerly on the table. Jesse then removed it's matching cardstock poster-ship tube, and unfurled the flexible display pane, snapping on its data and power connection flush with the notch in the black thinclient. The slightly opaque panel drooped awkwardly until Jesse clicked in a power cable to the floor, the display silently shifting into rigidity. He fished around in the box, looking for the keyboard projector while the thinclient autoprovisioned.
While he was powering on the keyboard projector, the terminal chimed, and a female voice spoke, "Welcome to IndraNet. This terminal is part of a protected network. Please swipe your identification." Jesse looked up at the blue screen, which showed him an image of the bank card. He clicked it out of its acrylic mailer and passed it over the thinclient. Green light, authenticated, approved. He went through the wizard, choosing a PIN, setting up a secure fallback phone number, et cetera. He was then presented with his desktop, and after the requisite customizations were completed inside of the package manager, Jesse placed a phone call.
"Pick up..."
***
"That van's been there for a solid week." The African Bedouin spoke in Italian, tugging on the v-neck of his storm grey t-shirt. He placed the collar of the shirt into his mouth, sucking wetly, bright eyes glued to the new, white van parked across from the Internet cafe. "I'm going to strip it and sell it if they don't move it by tomorrow. Motherfucker up on on cinder-blocks at the very least."
A pallid, stubble-covered face popped out from behind a rack of humming servers wearing a frown. "It's probably the mob's. It's full of coke, or hexagon wafers. You strip that car, you get nothing but trouble."
The Bedouin ran his hands through his close-cropped kinks of wiry black hair. "I'm going to set the bastard on fire if they don't move it. It's my spot, goddamnit."
"You can park your bike anywhere, Muhammad."
"It's not just a bike, it's a fucking Hyabusa." He muttered.
"It's an ugly bike. I'd almost prefer if you'd park it in the back."
"You know what else is ugly and I park in the rear of?"
"Amzi's Internet Cafe."
Muhammad turned around with a raised eyebrow, spotting Amzi on his hands-free, and shouted, "Your mother, Amzi!"
Amzi held up a finger to quiet him, "It's Jesse."
"Who?"
Amzi frowned, "The American."
"Oh."
The Israeli tiredly walked to a stool at the bar and took a seat, swiveling to look at Muhammad. He waited a moment, staring blankly at the African. He nodded, said something in English. He rested his stubbly chin on his hand. More English.
"Muhammad, I'm going to put Jesse on speaker. He's got an interesting offer. I'll translate." Amzi walked over to a terminal, transferred the call, and picked it up on a handset back at the bar.
"Can you hear me Amzi?" Jesse came in choppy over the old conference phone, in a kind of crackle.
Amzi pulled up a seat next to the phone. He took a look around, ensuring he really didn't have any customers. The stoic strategy gamers, locked in a world between their headphones, were on the top floor, but were glued-in. "We can hear you Jesse, but the connection is shit. Where are you onion-routing this call from? Never mind, actually, telling us over the line kind of defeats the purpose." Amzi sighed, fishing a cigarette out of a mangled softpack in his front shirt pocket. He lazily suspended it between two fingers in front of his lips. "I've got our old friend Muhammad on the line with me. He doesn't speak much English, so I'll be filling him in on the operable bits. You still don't speak Italian, right?"
Jesse's crackle whined-up in pitch, "Right. How's it going Muhammad?"
Amzi rolled his eyes as he lit the cigarette. Jesse never was one for biz. "He say's 'hi,' Muhammad."
Muhammad sucked on his shirt, confused. "Uh... 'Hi back,' I guess. Is this guy still new?" The Israeli took a half-drag, exhaling quickly through his nose. "He say's 'hi,' Jesse. So tell us what's up. We owe you after your last tip, made quite a pretty penny on that silk futures advice."
"I'm glad it did," Jesse was coming through clearer now, "I can't seem to make money on the trends I find, but as you know I like finding people who can. I've got a similar offer for you this time, but we're working in a much larger economy of scale."
Amzi nodded his head, grinning as he translated. "How much larger Jesse, I'd have to say that I'm excited to hear."
"I have complete, unfettered control to a collection of funds that rivals the gross domestic product of a small country. Larger than Laos but smaller than, say, Monaco."
Amzi was silent for a moment, eyes fixated on the phone. "Muhammad, Jesse's got a bigger budget this time."
Muhammad grinned, "Great! That last hundred thousand didn't last very long, this should be good!"
Amzi stared at the phone for a moment before hovering his finger over the green-illuminated mute button, "Hold for one second Jesse." The mute light turned red with a push. "Muhammad, he's holding on to almost two billion US dollars."
Muhammad pulled his shirt further into his mouth, and folded forward into his hands. As he cradled his head, he sighed. "Jesus. Who's is it and how hot is it?"
Amzi unmuted, "Jesse, where'd it come from? How fucked are you?"
The whine and crackle of the anonymously routed packets made the silence glitter in dreadful anticipation. "Some shell of a proxy of a ghost corporation. And, very fucked. They picked me up. In a Rolls." The whine came back.
Amzi stared at his cigarette in the dim light of the cafe. The after-school rush wouldn't be in for another hour or so. "What's your contract look like? Know what I'm saying?"
"I do. Let's call it contract to hire, with unbelievable benefits up-front." A sigh, "I don't want to find out what happens if my performance isn't satisfactory."
Red. Muted. "He's in deep Muhammad. They'll kill him or worse if this doesn't go through. He works for some spook that picked him up in a Rolls Royce."
The shirt was pulled into the black man's mouth, chewed a bit. "We don't owe him that much. Hang up and black-hole his calls. Done deal, no troubles."
Amzi inhaled, and pushed the red button, releasing smoke slowly. "What's in it for us Jesse. Make it easy for me."
Jesse coughed over the hissing, glitchy line, and cleared his throat. "Name your price."
Muhammad's eyebrows raised up. Amzi quietly shook the two fingers holding the cigarette at Muhammad.
"Money is one thing. Capital another. I can spend money anywhere I want. I don't have to sign a receipt. I can live in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, and nobody asks questions. Nobody comes knocking on the door of my chalet and puts buckshot in my stomach. Money, or capital, Jesse."
"Money." Jesse replied quickly, "I have a chit for a bank account, in my name. Cash. If I can make the deliverable without spending a dime, I keep it all. Contract is concise; crystal clear."
"He's clear, Muhammad. He just can't fuck up. One thing still doesn't make sense though, hold on." Amzi put out his cigarette on the concrete floor of the cybercafe. "Jesse, I trust they've got you good. I see the carrot, I see the stick, but I don't see where we're going. Where are we going?"
Jesse's lightning crackle of a laugh shot through the speakerphone, "I like that we're using 'we' now, because world markets don't manipulate themselves. I was thinking about starting with platinum group metals, so start thinking about the kind of research you'll be needing to do. I'll have your signing bonus waiting with a wagging tail. Check your email in 5 minutes for your boarding pass, pack your gear, and I'll see you tomorrow. "
***
The thin screen illuminated the room with stark light. The crackle of the anonymously routed, heavily encrypted call seemed to echo through the room, though Jesse knew it didn't. "Thank god for friends in low places." Jesse knew he heard an echo now. He didn't like what he said about Amzi and Muhammad though. It was empty, like the word 'friend,' and like the warehouse of a flat he was in. Sound to fill the void.
He grabbed his new passport from the 'keep' pile, threw less relevant documents in the cardboard box he labeled 'shred' in thin permanent marker. He had a feeling his minders would know what to do. Jesse stuffed his wallet with all the requisite identification, papers, and pocketed his new mobile phone, before stepping to the windows three-times as tall as he was. He stared out at the city, taking a moment. "Good evening, Japan." He changed focused, looking at his reflection. He smiled wryly. "Let's go celebrate, shall we?"
Jesse turned about-face on his heels, and walked toward the elevator. As he reached it, the clack of his shoes echoing through the room, he swiped his phone over the call-pad of the elevator. He waited. Nothing. No green light, not authenticated. Not approved. His new phone vibrated in his hand. He flipped it open. "This is Jesse."
A familiar visage greeted him on the screen, wearing a thin, transparent headset. "Good afternoon Jesse, my name is Sasuke Kondo. We met a few hours ago, during the conference with Small-san. It is a pleasure to see you again."
Jesse flashed an awkward grin. He hated video telepresence. "Konbanwa, Kondo-san! I am trying to get to the ground floor, can you help me out?"
Sasuke bowed slightly inside of the small display. "My apologies Wheato-san! This is a controlled access building, and for your safety and security, all entrances and exits are authenticated through myself or my proxy. Where will you be traveling, after you have left your residence?"
Jesse flushed, "Talent acquisition, like the email said."
Sasuke smiled, bowing again, "Of course. I'll send a car. And please, think of me as a concierge! You didn't need to book those airline tickets yourself. We'll need to set up a time to speak about the services you have available to you. Have a good night, Wheato-san!"
Jesse smiled, nodded, and closed the phone. He could get used to this.
***