Dead Lines. Greg Bear
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a cell phone,’ Peter said, ‘but not.’
‘Close enough,’ Weinstein agreed with a lean of his head. ‘They’ll be free for the next year. Then we go public and open booths in every shopping mall in the world.’
‘Joseph won’t invest?’ Peter asked.
Weinstein shrugged. ‘Our demo did not go well. Something seems to be wrong with the house.’ ‘There’s a steel frame. Lots of stone.’
‘Trans will work anywhere from the center of the Earth to the moon,’ Weinstein said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what the problem is. I shall have to ask my boss.’
‘And your boss is …?’
Weinstein held his finger to his lips. ‘Mr Benoliel trusts you?’
‘I suppose,’ Peter said. ‘He trusts me not to hit him up for money too often.’
Weinstein looked funny at that, then wiggled his finger in the air. ‘Monkey nuts?’
‘That is a joke,’ Peter said. ‘I do stuff for them. I’m nobody, really.’
Weinstein winked. ‘You have influence. They trust you, I can tell,’ he said. ‘Keep the unit. In fact, let me give you more. Hand them out to your friends, but if you would, please give one to a good friend of Mr Benoliel’s, or better yet, Mrs Benoliel’s.’
Peter shook his head. ‘I already have a cell phone,’ he said. ‘I get calls every week about new service plans.’
‘What about no service plan?’ Weinstein thrust out his fingers like a magician. ‘A Trans unit lasts for a year, and then you replace it with another, price yet to be established – but less than three hundred dollars. Unlimited calling day or night, anywhere on the planet. Better than digital – in fact, pure analog sound quality, just as God intended. Do you like vinyl LPs?’
‘I still have a few.’ In fact, Peter had hundreds, mostly jazz, classical, and 1960s rock.
‘Then you know what I mean. Lovely, like a soft whisper in your ear. No interference, just clean sound. If you can convince Mr Benoliel we’re on to something, you’ll get free units for life. You and five – no, ten of your friends.’
Peter gave a dry chuckle. ‘And?’
Weinstein lifted an eyebrow. ‘Five thousand shares, IPO guaranteed to be set at twenty-three dollars a share.’
Peter raised his own eyebrow even higher. He hadn’t survived a career in films for nothing.
Weinstein grinned devilishly. ‘Or five thousand dollars, up front, your choice, payable when Mr Benoliel invests.’
‘How about ten thousand?’
Weinstein’s smile remained, tighter but still friendly. ‘Okaaay,’ he said, mimicking Joseph’s deliberate drawl. ‘Pardner.’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and began scrawling on it with a fountain pen. ‘Do you have an agent?’
‘He hasn’t heard from me in a while.’ Peter examined the short, neatly penned document. The address was in Marin County. He would probably need to go north anyway, for Phil’s funeral – if there was going to be one. He asked for the fountain pen and signed. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Joseph rarely changes his mind.’
Weinstein excused himself and returned a few minutes later with a white cardboard box. In the box, buried in layers of foam, were ten plastic ovoids in various cheery colors.
‘All active and good for a year. Push the help button for instructions.’
‘How do you open them?’ Peter asked.
Weinstein demonstrated. Pressing a barely visible dimple on one side released the upper half, which swung aside with oily smoothness. There were no buttons. A screen covered most of the revealed face and lit up pearly white with black touch keypad and letters, different from his Motorola. The unit was neatly made and felt just right in his hand, slightly warm, slightly heavy.
‘It’s not a gift from aliens, is it?’ Peter asked.
‘It should be,’ Weinstein said, chuckling. ‘No, it’s entirely human. Just … people.’
Weinstein handed Peter the box and looked around the drawing room. ‘Quite a place,’ he said. ‘Have you worked here long?’
Peter smiled. Joseph did not like to be talked about, in any fashion, by anybody.
Weinstein turned serious. ‘Get this done, Mr Russell, and you’ll rate a visit to our new headquarters, as well as your bounty money. Then you’ll meet the man behind Trans.’
Peter folded shut the top of the box. ‘I’ll put these in my car,’ he said.
‘That lovely old Porsche?’ Weinstein asked. ‘Is it a replica?’ ‘Nope,’ Peter said.
‘Then it’s older than I am,’ Weinstein said.
After Weinstein’s departure, Peter followed Michelle up the long curve of marble stairs to the second floor. Flaubert House was huge and quiet, as solid as a tomb but cheerful in its way. ‘That was awkward,’ Michelle murmured. ‘Joseph knew someone’s daddy way back when. Now one of his boys sends a salesman to hit him up for ten million dollars.’
Peter walked beside her for the last few steps, silent. It had taken him into his forties to realize that the true art of conversation was saying almost nothing.
‘Joseph’s been a little down. I mean, not that he’s ever a ball of fire, you know? But a little less twinkle.’
In truth, Joseph had never struck Peter as being capable of twinkle. Blunt honesty, sharp conversation, an uncanny ability to pin down character – and a good joke every now and then – defined his few charms. Over the years, Peter had come to like Joseph; honesty and the occasional joke could make up for a lot.
Michelle looked tired. ‘Says he has a palooza of a chore for you. Won’t tell me what. Man stuff, do you think?’ Her long legs carried her more quickly over the thick Berber carpeting in the broad hallway.
‘Monkey nuts,’ Peter said.
Michelle smirked. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’ She left him standing between walls covered by framed glossies of movie stars. Most of the stylish portraits were autographed, souvenirs of Joseph’s days as a producer. Peter recognized them all: beautiful or soulful people brooding or sunny, feigning humor or dignity, looking inaccessible or seductive, but all seeking approval no matter what attitude they copped. Long ago, he had realized an almost universal truth about actors. They became real only when they were being witnessed, when they were on-screen. Hidden behind doors, alone, or looped around a reel and locked in a dark metal can … For an actor, not being seen, not having an audience, was worse than limbo.
‘All right,’ Michelle said, returning. ‘He’s decent.’ She opened a door near the end of the hall. ‘Joseph, it’s Peter.’
‘Who else would it be, Eliot Ness?’ a voice bellowed in the dark beyond.
Michelle sighed. ‘Ten percent bonus if you leave him a contented man.’
‘I heard that!’
Michelle sighed loudly and closed the door behind Peter.
Joseph sat in a huge leather chair near full-length windows opening onto a false balcony about a foot deep and faced with black wrought-iron railing. Lights from the front drive and the last of the sky glow drew him in broad grainy strokes like chalk on velvet. The room also contained an antique oak bar from a saloon in Dodge City, so the legend went, and two brown leather couches separated by a square black granite table. ‘Goddamned awkward,’ he said. ‘Did Weinstein try to suck you in?’
‘Yeah. Ambition,’ Peter said.
‘In spades.’
Peter