Manhattan Voyagers. Thomas Boone's Quealy
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out-think the humans who created them.”
“Yeah.”
“They say the real reason Google is digitizing every book ever written is so the computers can read everything mankind has produced. Once they discover all there is to know, we’re toast, they won’t need us anymore.”
“Hmm.”
“A neighbor of mine is an excellent blackjack player and a phenomenal card-counter,” piped in the man with enormous ears who’d remained silent thus far in the conversation. “In fact, he won so much money in Las Vegas that the casinos put him on their blacklist.”
“No kidding.”
“That’s right, Tuck, so he began to play blackjack online as a way to make a living. Long-story-short, he lost everything he owned.”
“How come, Myles?”
“Because nobody told him he was playing against a computer online. I mean, what human being can beat a fucking computer at card-counting?”
“Nobody.”
“That’s for sure!”
“It sounds illegal to me,” Tuck said, “for the gaming company not to disclose that he was going to be playing against a computer.”
“It was revealed in the fine print but he never bothered to read it.”
“Oh.”
“We’re totally shafted!” Jocko opined solemnly, finishing his drink in one long swig, “the machines have an unfair advantage; they don’t sleep, get tired, get sick, need sex or go on vacation. Soon they’ll be coming for all of us.”
“Yes, guys, it’s all very depressing,” Janet agreed, “we are too old to be retrained for other work and we’re too young to retire.”
Tuck rocked on his heels. “I’d say we’re now charter members of the Caught-Between-A-Rock-And-A-Hard-Place Club.”
“What can we do about it?”
“We can’t sit tight, Janet, it’s not steady-as-she-goes; it’s battle-stations and all-hands-on-deck time.”
“It sure is.”
“We’ve got to re-invent ourselves.”
“That’s a glib response, Tuck, but what the hell does it mean?”
“I wish I had the answer.” His blood-shot eyes swept the barroom, once the home of The New York Cotton Exchange. “All I’m certain of is that a lot of other people in here are in the same club as us.”
“Maybe all we can do is hope for the best,” the with enormous ears volunteered.
“Hope is not a strategy!” Janet shot back.
“Don’t be such a pessimist.”
“For your edification, Myles, a pessimist is a well-informed optimist.”
“Our short term plan should be to order another round,” Jocko said, attempting to inject a bit of gallows humor to lighten the mood.
There weren’t any laughs, however, not even gloomy ones.
“Tuck?” she persisted.
“To quote my boyhood idol, Yogi Berra: The future isn’t what it used to be.”
“Tell me something that I don’t already know.”
Tuck put down his glass. “At this juncture we need to consult with the smartest person we can find in New York City.”
“I assume you mean Ruthie.”
“Yeah. She will be able to analyze our dire situation objectively; slice and dice it in all sorts of ways: up and down, backwards and forwards, even sideways, if necessary.”
“You’re on the right track,” Jocko said encouragingly.
“She’s the only person with the intellectual capacity to be able to tell us how to dodge the powerful shit-storm coming our way.”
“True.”
Tuck held his head high. “I’m hooking up with Jimmy at the Bull & Bear Tavern tomorrow night to do a little consoling in his hour of need.”
“That’s very decent of you.”
“While I’m there lifting Jimmy’s spirits and helping him to drink his troubles away, I’ll stop by the Coat-Check Room and ask Ruthie what the solution to our problem is.”
“Good man!”
*
Clickety-Clack
Carl Pizzi, 36, left his ramshackle apartment building in Brooklyn at dawn and climbed into the backseat of the black Lincoln town car idling at the curb. Limousines were as scarce as Good Samaritans in the gritty Bushwick neighborhood so the early-risers took notice on their way to the subway that would take them to low-paying service jobs in Manhattan. The car crossed the Williamsburg Bridge in light traffic and merged onto the FDR Drive North. Then it exited at the Bruckner Expressway and drove up the Hutchinson River Parkway that ultimately led onto I-95. Forty-four miles later the car arrived on the Boston Post Road in the very upscale suburban town of Darien, Connecticut. Limousines were a dime-a-dozen there and the Lincoln garnered no attention when it stopped near the Metro North railroad station.
He got out and joined the throng of commuters herded together like sheep on the platform waiting for the ride to Grand Central Station in New York. Ten minutes later the train pulled into the station and he was careful to follow instructions and enter the third car from the front. Sitting down next to an empty 4-seater, he removed The Wall Street Journal from his briefcase. His dark hair slicked-back and dressed in an expensive, chalk-striped suit, white shirt, and yellow power tie, he appeared to be just another drowsy executive making the daily commute from the Gold Coast of Fairfield County.
The train departed the station and chugged clickety-clack through the scenic countryside towards Greenwich, the wealthiest town in the state, if not in the entire nation, home to hedge fund billionaires and the top echelon of American business. Four well-dressed men entered the car at Greenwich and took their usual seats kitty-corner to him. They were dark-skinned and began to converse softly in Arabic once the train picked up speed and became a direct express from that point on.
Carl didn’t understand Arabic and had no idea what the men were talking about. All he’d been told was that they worked for the sovereign wealth fund of a major oil-producing country in the Middle East. He didn’t need to know anything more and pressed a finger on the lock of his briefcase to activate the directional microphone and recorders within. Although he much preferred reading The New York Post for its gossip and sports coverage, he pretended to be engrossed in the financial newspaper during the thirty-five minute ride to the city, never once glancing at the men.
At Grand Central he disembarked with everyone else and melted into the gaggle of commuters flowing out onto Vanderbilt Avenue. Stopping at a food cart on the corner of 44th. Street, he ordered a coffee, placing his briefcase on the sidewalk while he rummaged in his pockets for the correct change.
A fashionable blonde wearing a peach-colored silk chiffon dress scooped up the briefcase as she passed by and sashayed towards Fifth Avenue with it. He savored the coffee and admired her shapely figure until she got lost in the crowd. Then he glanced up at the giant clock adorning the façade of 320 Park Avenue. A lopsided smile enlivened his face, it was only 8:15 A.M. and his workday was already over. Maybe he’d take the subway out to Coney Island and go on the new parachute jump ride. Later, he’d visit his pals at the Bull & Bear Tavern near Wall Street.
*
Eddie
The elderly man walked out to the end of Pier 11 and the wind off the water slapped his body