Part 2 (2/2)

Anna and Jenny said nothing.

”Oh yeah,” said Herk, ”big-time f.a.gs, is what I read.”

”He can read?” said Jenny, softly, looking straight ahead.

”What did you say?” said Herk, coming around the sofa.

Anna put her arm in front of her daughter. ”Arthur,” she said, ”leave her alone.”

”What did you say?” said Herk again, standing in front of Jenny, his head bobbing, wine slos.h.i.+ng from his gla.s.s.

Jenny stared straight ahead, as if looking right through Herk. She wished she could disappear into the TV set, become part of Friends, live with fun, nice people instead of this drunk a.s.shole who hated her and hit her mom.

”Arthur,” said Anna, knowing that she would pay for this later. ”You get away from her.”

Herk turned toward Anna, his head still bobbing, his eyes unfocused and red. Anna couldn't believe that she once found this man attractive. He took a step toward her, slos.h.i.+ng more wine. Anna was watching his right hand, the one without the gla.s.s. He saw her looking at it, and he made his hand into a fist and jerked it toward her. Anna flinched. Herk liked that. He made her flinch again, then turned and picked up the remote control.

”Let's see what else is on,” he said, and he changed the channel.

Outside in the humid darkness, at the edge of the patio, the two men-both swatting mosquitoes; one holding a rifle-were watching the Herks through the sliding-gla.s.s door. Their names were Henry and Leonard, and they were being paid $25,000 apiece, plus first-cla.s.s round-trip expenses from their nice homes in suburban New Jersey, to shoot Arthur Herk with real bullets.

Henry and Leonard had been hired by a Miami company called Penultimate, Inc., where Arthur Herk was a mid-level executive. Penultimate was one of the largest engineering and construction firms in South Florida. It specialized in government contracts, and it made spectacular profits. Penultimate's formula for success was simple: aggressive management, strict employee discipline, and a relentless commitment to cheating. The company lied extravagantly about its technical qualifications, submitted absurdly unrealistic lowball bids to get contracts, and tacked on huge add-on charges. Penultimate was able to do these things because it paid excellent bribes to government officials. Penultimate was as good at munic.i.p.al corruption as it was bad at actually building things. In political circles, it was well known that Penultimate could be absolutely relied upon to do the wrong thing. In South Florida, a reputation like that is priceless.

Granted, sometimes there were problems. There was the time Penultimate won a large contract to build a prisoner-detention facility in downtown Miami. The facility was supposed to feature a state-of-the-art electronic security-door system, and the taxpayers certainly paid for a state-of-the-art security-door system. But what actually got installed was a semi-random collection of hardware that included, as a central element, garage-door openers purchased on sale at Home Depot for $99.97 apiece. The result was that, during a bad lightning storm shortly after the facility went into service, a number of key doors simply opened themselves, leaving it up to the prisoners to decide, on the honor system, whether they wished to remain in jail.

As it happened, 132 prisoners, out of a possible 137, decided that they did not wish to remain in jail. It was a huge story: a horde of criminals, some of them murderers, running loose on the streets of downtown Miami, pursued by a frantic posse of police and media. The highlight came when the capture of an escaped prisoner was shown live, nationally, on the NEC Nightly News, and a reporter shouted to the prisoner, as he was being hustled into a police cruiser, ”Who masterminded the escape?”

”Ain't n.o.body mastermind s.h.i.+t” the prisoner shouted back. ”The mufuh doors opened.”

Even by Miami standards, this was considered a major screwup. Under intense pressure from the media, Penultimate explained, through its dense firewall of high-priced attorneys, that all the blame belonged to ... subcontractors. The politicians, who did not want Penultimate to get into trouble, inasmuch as almost all of them had received money from the company, pounced on this explanation like wild dogs on a pork chop: Yes! That was it! Subcontractors were responsible!

Unfortunately for the cause of justice, most of the key subcontractors involved either fled the country or died, generally in boating accidents. Eventually, the investigation lost steam, and the issue degenerated into a vast steaming bog of lawsuits and counter-lawsuits that would not be settled within the current geological era. Everybody lost interest, and Penultimate went back to winning contracts.

One of these was for a six-story downtown parking garage that wound up costing, what with one thing and another, just under four times the original contract figure. Each price increase was approved with virtually no discussion by key political leaders, who were invited to make speeches at the garage dedication ceremony, which fortunately was held outside the structure, which is why only two people were injured when the entire central portion of the structure collapsed during the opening prayer.

Once again there was outrage; once again there were statements and hearings; once again the finger of blame ultimately wound up being pointed at-it is so hard to get good help-those darned subcontractors. Who of course by that point were disappearing faster than weekend houseguests in an Agatha Christie story. And Penultimate continued to prosper and grow and benefit from its reputation as a company that only a fool would mess with.

As it happened, Arthur Herk, in addition to being an abusive alcoholic, was a fool. To pay off a gambling debt, he had embezzled $55,000 from Penultimate. Unbeknownst to him, his bosses, experts in the field of dishonesty and far smarter than Arthur, had discovered the theft almost immediately. They viewed embezzlement as a fairly serious violation of corporate policy, punishable by death.

And so Penultimate had hired two specialized subcontractors, Henry and Leonard, the men waiting in the humid darkness outside the sliding-gla.s.s door to the Herk family room. In whispered voices, they were discussing scheduling.

”We shoot him now,” Leonard was saying, ”we make the eleven-forty flight to Newark.”

”I can't shoot him now,” Henry said. ”He's too close to the women.” Henry was the man with the rifle; Leonard's main jobs were to drive and keep Henry company.

”You don't shoot him soon,” Leonard said, ”I'm dead, from these f.u.c.king mosquitoes.” He slapped one on his wrist, leaving a quarter-sized blot of blood and bug parts. ”Look at this thing,” he said. ”He's the size of that f.u.c.king dog.”

”She,” said Henry, continuing to watch the Herk family through the window.

”She?” asked Leonard. ”She what?”

”The mosquito,” said Henry. ”It's a she.”

Leonard looked closely at the blot on his wrist, then back at Henry. ”How fiief.u.c.k can you tell that?” he asked.

”This show on the Discovery Channel,” explained Henry. ”They said only the female mosquito sucks your blood.”

Leonard looked at the blot again. He said, ”b.i.t.c.h.”

”What they didn't explain,” said Henry, ”is what do the male mosquitoes eat?”

”What, are you worried about them?”

”No, I'm not worried about them. I'm just ... ”

”You want I should go get a f.u.c.king pizza for them, set it out here in the jungle so they don't starve?”

”I'm just saying, what do they eat? If they don't suck blood? Is all I'm saying.”

”Maybe they suck each other,” said Leonard.

Henry had to smile at that, which only encouraged Leonard.

”Oh, Bruth!” Leonard said in a lisping mosquito whisper. ”YouhaveaBIGthtinger!”

Henry was quietly quaking with laughter now; his rifle barrel vibrated in the gloom.

Inside the family room, Arthur Herk was methodically, relentlessly changing channels. He was doing this partly because the instinct to change channels is embedded deep in the male genetic code, and partly because he knew his wife and stepdaughter hated it. For a few minutes, Anna and Jenny stared at the flas.h.i.+ng jumble of images, expressionless, not wanting to give Herk any satisfaction. Finally, Jenny sighed and stood. Addressing Anna, she said, ”I'm gonna go to my room, where it's not so, I don't know ... stupid. Good night, Mom.”

Herk kept changing channels.

Anna said, ”I think I'll let Roger in and go to bed, too.”

Herk stopped changing channels and looked at her. She recognized the look. She hoped he'd pa.s.s out in the family room tonight. She hoped he would not make it to the bedroom. She rose from the sofa.

Outside, Henry whispered, ”They're leaving.”

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