Pawn's Play, page 3
On the impressive side, Blackgaard knew about an important computer program that Whittaker made called Applesauce, and the fact that Blackgaard knew about the program in the first place was especially impressive. Though Blackgaard didn’t reveal how he knew about it, or exactly what it did, he did let slip (or was it on purpose?) that it was of interest to people at the highest levels of government. He also knew it had been used at least once at Whit’s End, which ended up shutting down the place—zapping all of its electrical power—and getting a couple of employees fired.
Just how Blackgaard knew about the shutdown and firings was the concerning part. It seems another one of his operatives had actually been spying on Whit’s End when Applesauce was used. He heard the employees yelling about it and was listening at the door when they got fired. That operative was Myron—aka Jellyfish—the very person through whom Maxwell had been fencing his stolen goodies from the old geezers at the Odyssey Retirement Home. Blackgaard told Jellyfish what to look and listen for, and when it happened, Jellyfish informed Blackgaard.
What was cool was the way Jellyfish informed him. Blackgaard had apparently managed to get his hands on a radiofax receiver, like the ones Western Union used in their Telecar telegram delivery vehicles back in the 1940s. Only someone had modified it for him so that when people sent him messages, instead of being typed out on paper, they would appear on his computer screen. Retro and cool at the same time. Of course, it was a direct connection—Blackgaard couldn’t use it to hack into Whittaker’s computer. Which is why he needs me, Maxwell thought. Myron also told Blackgaard about me. That’s the scary part. I can’t trust anyone here. He chortled aloud. So what else is new? No biggie. All I have to do is make sure Blackgaard always needs me.
Maxwell spent the rest of that week attending classes and working at the retirement home, though he stopped pilfering items at Blackgaard’s insistence.
“It’s too risky, Richard,” Blackgaard told him. “If Mr. Glossman can catch you, so can the police. And you need to keep off the police radar for the work you will be doing for me.”
Maxwell didn’t like it—it meant a cut in his income—but he really didn’t have much choice, since he no longer had anyone through whom to fence the merchandise. And though Blackgaard promised to pay him handsomely, he would do so only if Maxwell got results.
That was okay, though. Maxwell had another plan for supplementing his income once he got the gig as head of computer security—a plan he had formed even before he met Blackgaard. Campbell College had two shortened summer terms of six weeks each. The first term had ended the week before the warehouse trip; the second term was just about to start. The plan came to him last semester in chemistry class of all places. He didn’t much care for chemistry. He understood the basics, which was good enough to get him a passing grade, but he was a prodigy at it compared to the two mouth-breathing knuckle draggers who sat in front of him.
Kenneth Ellis and Donald Pearce were the school’s best athletes, and “sports” and “troublemakers” were the only contexts in which the word best could be applied to them. Their athletic prowess had allowed them to skate through their high school academics, and as a result, they were woefully ill prepared scholastically for the rigors of higher learning. Not that they cared; they thought their athletic abilities would get them through college just as they had gotten them through high school. But the dolts soon learned that they were actually expected to complete their assignments and earn passing grades to maintain their full-ride scholarships. Surprisingly, they were smart enough to realize they weren’t smart enough, so they sought help—but, unsurprisingly, not from legitimate tutors. They turned to their less athletic alums and elicited their “assistance” via threats and payment.
Maxwell fell into the latter category. He had earned a small sum writing the jocks’ term papers for English composition during spring semester. At first, Maxwell thought ghostwriting term papers might be a good way to keep making money, but writing ended up being so boring—and actually took a bit of work to accomplish—that he rejected the idea. But as he watched the two gorillas use a Bunsen burner to light afire strands of hair they plucked from their own heads in Professor Cyril’s chem lab, and then noticed their shock and concern when they got back their latest test papers and saw the large Fs in red ink at the top of both, a new idea took shape in Maxwell’s mind. He approached Ellis and Pearce with it after class as they sat at a picnic table under a shade tree on a grassy area of the quad, not eating their lunches.
“Hello, boys!”
Pearce just kept sitting and staring at his failed test paper, while Ellis stopped flicking his french fries at a squirrel in the tree and glared at Maxwell. “Are you lost, Max-nerd?”
“No, but I think you two are.”
Pearce kept staring at his paper. “How can we be lost? We’re right here.”
Ellis snorted, then said, “What do you want?”
Maxwell smirked. “Looks like you guys have a little chemical imbalance.”
Ellis’s brow furrowed. He scanned his body and then Pearce’s. “What are you talking about? We’re in perfect shape!”
How thick can you get? thought Maxwell. He pointed to Pearce’s test paper. “Not with your bodies. With your grades.”
Maxwell saw a lightbulb go on in Ellis’s head, and the dolt snorted again. “Oh, I get it! Chemical as in chemistry. Ha! That’s a good one!”
Pearce finally looked up at Maxwell. “So what if we are? What’s it to you?”
Maxwell shrugged. “Oh, nothing. Just that I might be able to help you with them.”
Ellis leaned forward. “Whadaya mean help us?”
Maxwell grinned. “What if I could guarantee you an A in chemistry?”
Pearce’s eyes narrowed. “How? This ain’t no paper you can write for us. This is a test. It’s already done.”
Ellis nodded. “Yeah, and we ain’t into studying. Besides, it ain’t just one test. We did this on all of ’em. You gonna help us with all of ’em?”
“And we’re gonna do this on the final on Thursday, too,” Pearce muttered. “You gonna help us with that?”
“If I can . . . Would that be worth something to you?”
Pearce pounded his fist on the table. “What do you think, dweeb? If I fail chemistry, I lose my scholarship. Of course it’s worth something to me!”
Ellis, who jumped when Pearce pounded the table, swallowed hard and said, “Yeah! What he said.”
Maxwell smiled and said, “Good.” He turned and started to walk away, but Ellis stopped him. “Wait! You gonna help us or what?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.” He took a few steps, then turned back and added, “Just remember how much my help is worth to you, boys. ’Cause this time it’ll be a lot more expensive than what you paid me for writing those reports.” He turned again and walked away, wishing he could see the looks on their gooney faces.
Of course, to make good on his proposal to them—and now, to do what Blackgaard wanted—Maxwell needed to get the head of computer security job first. But that was just a formality. It was Thursday, and Mr. Burglemeister had summoned Maxwell for his final interview.
He fairly skipped down the quad sidewalk toward the information technology building that housed Burglemeister’s office. Though outwardly calm, he was giddy on the inside. He was so anxious to get there, get hired, and get started that he arrived at the building fifteen minutes early. It won’t do to appear too eager, he thought, so he stopped in front of the glass entry door and checked his appearance in its reflection. Hair—perfect; teeth—gleaming; smile—charming. He’d even put on a tie for this, and it was expertly tied and hanging straight. He checked his watch. Fourteen minutes to go.
He sighed and looked out at the quad. A few feet farther down the sidewalk, a blonde girl with her hair in a ponytail was standing behind a folding table under a canopy, arranging flyers and information sheets on the table in front of her. Maxwell checked his watch again and then headed toward the table to see what she was selling.
The front of the table had a brightly decorated sign taped to it. At the top of the sign were the words “Mentors Wanted!” in bold, colorful letters. Beneath that, in smaller but equally bold, colorful lettering, it read, “Help shape young minds! Student counselors are needed for a special test program at CCC. Be a mentor to a gifted youngster. Make a difference!” The blonde girl thrust a flyer at Maxwell, smiled brightly, and said, “Hello! Want to make a difference?” Her teeth fairly sparkled.
Maxwell smirked and took the flyer. “Always.”
“Great!” replied the blonde. “There’s no better way to do it than to be a mentor to a gifted young person!”
“Is that so?” said Maxwell with feigned sincerity.
“Oh yes! These are supersmart kids from the foster-care system. They’ve been here on campus since the beginning of the week, and they need mentors like you to help them adjust to college.”
“Mm-hmm,” Maxwell grunted. “Help them how?”
The blonde cocked her head from one side to the other as she talked. Her ponytail bounced rhythmically. “Well . . . make sure they’re doing their work and get to where they’re supposed to be, keep an eye on them, and make sure they’re included in the great stuff going on around campus . . . and, oh, just generally be with them and there for them if and when they need you.”
“Sounds like a pretty big time commitment.”
“Well, yes, but a rewarding one!”
Maxwell put on a thoughtful expression. “How rewarding?”
The blonde’s smile faded slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“How . . . rewarding?” he repeated slowly. “Just what do I get out of it?”
The blonde looked quizzical. “Uh, get out of it?”
“Yeah,” said Maxwell. “Get out of it. As in, what’s in it for me?”
The blonde’s brow furrowed. You can almost see the wheels turning in her brain, thought Maxwell, suppressing a laugh.
She swallowed, took a breath, and said, “Uh, well, uh, you get college course credit . . . and the joy of bonding with a smart young person and helping shape his or her mind!” The smile returned.
“I see,” said Maxwell as sincerely as he could, and then added, “That’s it? No money or anything?”
“No, no money. It’s strictly volunteer.”
Maxwell nodded. “So let me get this straight. I have to spend a lot of time—my time—being coach, counselor, teacher, mentor, and babysitter to a brainiac urchin. And all I get out of it is a single lousy course credit?”
“Well, that, and the great satisfaction of knowing you helped shape a young mind,” the blonde replied. “And making a new friend, of course.” Her smile was brighter than ever. “So . . . are you interested?”
Maxwell chuckled and flicked the flyer back down on the table. “No, but I want to thank you for giving me something amusing to pass the time while I waited for my appointment.”
The blonde’s smile melted into a frown as Maxwell checked his watch and then turned and headed toward the information technology building’s front doors.
He chuckled as he walked down the hallway toward Burglemeister’s office. Some people were so gullible. She was cute, though. Maybe after the interview, he’d go back, turn on the charm, and get her to go out with him. A new job and a date—not a bad day’s work.
As he rounded the corner, he saw something that made him do a slight double take. A boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, was walking down the hallway toward him. He had short brown hair, freckles, and a slightly upturned nose upon which perched a pair of oversize glasses. He wore patched jeans and worn-out sneakers and a small white lab coat befitting his size, under which Maxwell could see the triangle of a faded, striped pullover shirt. The boy had a satchel of books over one shoulder and was gnawing on a banana as he walked. He stopped at the door to the computer security room and was about to slide a keycard through a keypad next to the door when he caught Maxwell looking at him.
They locked eyes for an instant, and then the boy slid his keycard in the slot and quickly punched in the code on the keypad. The door buzzed, he opened it, and then he disappeared inside the room. The door automatically shut behind him. Maxwell frowned, then continued on toward the offices.
Mr. Burglemeister greeted him at the front desk. “Ah! Maxwater! Right on time! Come in! Come in! Zit! Zit!” he said, ushering Maxwell into the office.
Maxwell started to correct the old guy about his name, thought better of it, and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. Burglemeister closed the office door, quickly rounded the desk, and sat in his comfortable-looking leather desk chair. The leather squeaked, and the springs moaned as he lowered his considerable bulk into it. He smiled at Maxwell across the desk and said, “Vell, I’m sure you haf been on pins und noodles all veek about the job, yah?”
Maxwell suppressed a smirk. “Uh, yah . . . er, yes . . . er, yes, sir. That’s certainly one way of putting it.”
“Yah, yah, I thought zo.” Burglemeister leaned back in his chair, and its springs protested the increased stress with a grinding groan. He brought his fingertips together over his ample belly. “As you know, Maxstein, decisions like zis are never simpleton. A lot of factors must be veighed, a lot of information consumed, und a lot of considerations . . . uh . . . vell . . . considered. Ve haf to make absolutely certain that ve are hiring zee right person for zis position. Choose zee wrong one, und zee whole thing is kaput!”
Maxwell was roaring with laughter on the inside, but outside he remained completely serious. “I understand, sir.”
Burglemeister leaned forward. The chair squawked. “Goot. I hope zo. Because after careful und sober consternation, taking all things into account, I vanted to be zee first to tell you zat . . . you’re not getting zee job.”
Maxwell smiled with false modesty and opened his mouth to say “Thank you” . . . and then Burglemeister’s words registered in his brain. The smile faded. “I’m . . . not getting the job?”
Burglemeister shook his head slowly. “No.”
“But . . . but . . . why?”
“You vere a very strong second,” Burglemeister said reassuringly. “Und you certainly haf zee computer knowledge und grades—”
“Then what—?”
“—in your computer classes. In your other classes, though . . .”
Maxwell’s insides had stopped laughing. This can’t be happening! Burglemeister shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Your grades und attendance in your other classes are furchtbar—terrible. You barely pass, und you barely show up!”
“Well, I-I can explain.”
Burglemeister held up a hand. “Yah, yah, I’m sure you can. But it is still here on your record.”
Maxwell opened and closed his mouth.
Burglemeister sighed heavily. The chair squeaked. “I like you, Maxleib. You know computers, und you make me haf zee giggles. But I simply cannot haf someone mit such poor academic performance in charge of computer security.” He frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
Maxwell swallowed. “Yeah . . . me, too,” he muttered. He rose from the chair, opened the office door, started to leave, and then turned back to the desk. “Who did get the job?”
“Oh, uh, his name is . . .” Burglemeister shuffled through the papers again and drew one out. “Yah, here it is. His name is Eugene Meltsner.” He looked up at Maxwell. “Do you know him?”
“No,” Maxwell replied. “Never heard of him.”
Burglemeister’s eyebrows rose. “A graduate student. Excellent grades und attendance.”
Maxwell scowled. “I’m sure.” He walked away, leaving the office door open.
This is a nightmare! he thought, striding down the hallway toward the front entrance. How could this have happened? I had this wrapped up. Everything was set. Then some top-student-perfect-grades-and-attendance übergeek shows up and ruins everything! Eugene. Even his name sounds geeky!
Maxwell burst through the front doors and out onto the sidewalk. The quad had more people on it now, some hurrying to class, some strolling and reading, some lying on the grass. A small group was gathered at the picnic table under the tree where he had met with Ellis and Pearce. Maxwell scowled. That plan was now done. It would have been such a sweet setup too—easy money! And what was he going to tell Blackgaard? This was bad. He growled. Everything was great a little while ago, and now, to use Burglemeister’s words, “Zee whole thing is kaput’’!
Just then he heard a familiar voice. It was the blonde at the table under the E-Z UP canopy. She was still perky, still smiling, and still trying to get gullible dupes to volunteer to be mentors to a bunch of preadolescent brainiacs. He sneered at them and shook his head. Some people were so . . .
Wait a minute! Preadolescent brainiacs?
He had an idea—if it panned out. A brilliant idea! He raced over to the blonde, who was just finishing her spiel with another student. She turned, smiling, and said, “Hi!” Then she noticed it was Maxwell and said with disgust, “Oh, you again.”
He smiled sincerely. “Hi, again.”
“Listen,” she snapped, “I’m doing something very important here—something I believe in. I’m not here for your warped amusement.”
He exuded charm. “I know. And I’m sorry I acted that way before. I was just about to go into a really big meeting, and I was nervous and needed to calm down. And . . . and that’s no excuse for the way I behaved. Really, I’m very sorry.”
The blonde’s expression softened. “Well . . . okay, I guess.”
Maxwell picked up a flyer. “Besides, the more I thought about it, the more I realized this is a great idea.”
The blonde’s smile returned in all its radiant glory. “Really?”
“Yeah! I mean, like you said, it’s important.”
