The Great Game Page 2

  David tried to control his voice. “If you want design review documents and presentations, they’re in my bag, and detailed files are on my computer. I can walk you through them if you like.”

  Whatever he said seemed to take the Asian in the passenger seat aback, because he looked at David for a few moments before saying, “Yes, you will ‘walk us’ through everything. Why are you calling them design review documents? Are you trying to be funny?”

  David couldn’t help but think that he was in some outlandish Kafkian world, where he was being held responsible for something but had no idea what it was. He said, “Well, that’s what we call them. If you get me my bag, I’ll show them to you.”

  At that point the driver apparently lost patience, because he turned around and screamed at David. “Stop fucking around! We want the Shulman file, and we’ll beat it out of you if you don’t give it to us!”

  The driver was still glaring at David when everyone in the car was thrown forward hard. The Lincoln had rear-ended a stopped delivery truck. David hit his head on the edge of the driver’s seat and blacked out for a moment. When he came to, the car was filling with steam from the radiator. The two men in front were moaning against air bags. The Mexican on his right seemed dazed. So was the guy on his left.

  Someone opened the door asking, “Are you OK?”

  David thought, I am certainly not OK. He climbed over the guy on his left, pushed past rescuers, and started limping away. He did it without conscious planning, almost instinctively. He was now in the middle of the Lincoln and Washington intersection, but traffic had stopped, people rubbernecking the accident. His legs and left arm felt numb, and there was a throbbing pain in his left temple. David heard people calling to him, and cars honking, but he kept walking without thinking except for, What the hell is this about? Walking as fast as he could, away from those strange people asking questions that he could not understand.

  He crossed Lincoln, moving west, ducked into an alley, came to one of the smaller Venice streets, and started running. He kept thinking, I have to move at least ten blocks away. He wasn’t sure why it was ten. That number just stuck in his head. He heard rapid, labored breathing, looked back in fear, and realized that it was his own. After zigzagging through a few streets and running across Venice Boulevard, he passed through a Venice area filled with auto body shops. David stopped, looked around. Nobody was following him, despite incessant barking of the dogs alerting their owners to something suspicious in the neighborhood. He leaned against a telephone pole with his hands on his knees, and paused to catch his breath, sweat running down his face.

  Friday, 4/22/2022, 3:38 p.m. PDT

  There was a small ethnic restaurant on the corner. East European something or other. The adrenaline was wearing off, the panic that gripped his mind subsiding a bit. Numb, tired, and in urgent need of sitting down, and trying to understand what just happened, David walked into the restaurant. The only person he could see there was a waitress.

  She gave David a strange look and said, “Any table you like.”

  He sat at a table in the corner facing the door. It was something he’d read in spy novels—sit in a corner where you can watch the door—but never had to think about before. The waitress came to the table, put down the menu, and asked if he wanted something to drink. David was tempted to say “Martini, shaken not stirred,” but he bit his tongue and replied, “Coffee, black,” because that was the only other thing that came to mind. He felt momentarily James Bond-ish, but then another deflating thought intruded: James Bond would have dealt with those assholes instead of running away scared shitless.

  His voice must have come out weak, because she said, “Excuse me?”

  “Coffee, black, no sugar.”

  “OK.” The waitress lingered and said, “You don’t look so hot. What happened?”

  David was stumped. He didn’t make things up easily, but how could he explain what just took place? He cleared his throat, “I was walking and I got into a fight.”

  The waitress nodded. “It happens around here. I hope the other guy looks worse. There is a restroom in the back if you want to clean up.”

  As he often did, David thought of himself in third person, picturing how ridiculous he must look to the waitress. Getting beaten up in a fight. Pathetic. He thanked her and walked to the restroom. Despite the dim bulb and peeled mirror, David could see that he indeed did not look hot, with dirt and blood smeared over his face and shirt. He washed up and combed his hair. Blood still seeped from a cut on his forehead, but the bathroom did not even have paper towels, so there wasn’t much else to do.

  When he came back to his corner table, there was a cup of coffee waiting for him. It felt good to drink the hot liquid and let his pulse settle back to somewhat normal. The waitress returned carrying two paper napkins, one wet and one dry. She wiped the cut on his forehead with the wet one, dried it with the second napkin, and then pulled a Band-Aid from her pocket and applied it to the cut. She did all this in a businesslike manner, without saying a word. David felt like he was being treated by a nurse.

  The waitress said, “Now that you look somewhat presentable, would you like anything to eat?”

  David felt nauseous and thought that a bite of food would help. “What do you recommend?” he asked, actually looking at her for the first time. Before she was just a blurry figure. He liked looking at women, and even in this half-crazed state he took in her appearance. Not a beauty but attractive and a bit exotic-looking. About five foot six, high cheekbones, shoulder-length black hair with yellow highlights, wearing faded jeans and a light blue T-shirt that read “If you think education is expensive, try ignorance.” Her face had an olive complexion, a small button nose and thin lips, but it was her bright greenish eyes that stood out to him. They were matched by simple silver earrings with green stones. No rings, no obvious cosmetics, fingernails nicely trimmed but not painted. The T-shirt was low-cut and showed some attractive cleavage. Her pose, with one hand resting on the corner of the table, seemed to strike a note of casual confidence, as if saying yes, I am here to serve you, but I am not a servant. She had a slight accent that he couldn’t place. He would have guessed her to be in her mid-twenties, except for the crow’s feet around her eyes, giving away that she’d likely crossed into thirties territory.

  “People seem to like cheese nalesniki.” Seeing David’s puzzled look, she helpfully added, “They’re kind of like crepes or burritos with cheese.”

  David nodded OK, and the waitress disappeared in the direction of a kitchen he could hear but not see.

  Now that he was able to steady himself a bit, David started to arrange the facts in his head. That was his training after all—solving problems by applying logic. He’d been kidnapped by four people, two of them Asian and two probably Mexican, who wanted to know what someone named Julius told him and whether he had some “Shulman file.” Was this related to the aircraft Internet service? It had to be. He simply could not come up with anything else he knew that could possibly be of interest to anybody. His previous project involved upgrading a satellite system for a network of gas stations, and who the hell would care about that? The new aircraft Internet service was the most interesting thing he’d worked on in years. He caught himself thinking again that he’d been wasting his life on stupid projects, but chased the thought away. He had other things to deal with right now.

  Unfortunately, the kidnappers now had the documents and his computer. He’d have to go to the police. What was he going to say on Monday at work? With another RIF coming up soon, he really did not need this. Losing his job in this economy? Thankfully, he had no dependents. But then, after the market crash and the divorce, he didn’t have any savings either.

  The waitress came back with a plate of two burrito-like things and refilled his coffee. He thanked her and started absentmindedly eating.

  Something did not quite add up. The project wasn’t particularly secretive. Julius was a fairly distinctive name, and he was pretty sure he
hadn’t heard it in Seattle’s meetings. And the guy in the front seat was surprised when David mentioned design review documents. Still, he didn’t have a better theory.

  David looked at his watch. It was 4:17. Just about an hour since he was at Big 5. His car was still there in the parking lot.

  The waitress came over. “My shift is ending. So unless you want to order something else, would you please pay?”

  David glanced at the bill, which added up to $14.27, and fished twenty dollars out of his wallet. At this point, he remembered that Jim was waiting for him at Santa Monica tennis courts. He reached into his shirt pocket for the phone, but it wasn’t there. Must have fallen out somewhere along the way. David said to the waitress, “Please keep the change, but can I borrow your phone for a quick local call? Just to tell my friend that I’m running late?”

  The waitress looked at him suspiciously, her hand reaching into the right pocket of her jeans and staying there. David added, “I must have dropped mine.”

  She said, ‘”Sure,” and handed him an old iPhone 8.

  Fortunately, David had a good memory for numbers and was able to get Jim’s right. Jim answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s David.”

  “David? That’s not your number.”

  “I know. I lost my phone.”

  “I know you did. People who found it called me a few minutes ago because my number was the last call you made. They wanted to know how they could get it back to you.”

  “Really? What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I’m waiting for you on court number three, and they can bring the phone here. They said they’ll do that. When are you coming over? We have only forty minutes left on the reservation.”

  “Well, I had an accident and I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it. Would you mind getting my phone from them, and I’ll swing by tonight or tomorrow morning to pick it up?”

  “Sure. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine. I’ll tell you more when I see you.”

  “OK. Do you still want to have dinner tonight?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll go home, take a shower, change, and call you.”

  David ended the call and thought how nice it was that someone found the phone and was actually trying to get it back to him. There really still were some good people in this world. He thought about needing a cab. The waitress was not nearby to ask for permission to make a second call. He Googled a taxicab number, called it, and gave them the address from the menu that was on his table. He put the waitress’s phone on the edge of the table. The restaurant started filling up, with a couple of tables now occupied and a new waitress giving them menus.

  The waitress with the “education” T-shirt came to get her phone and put it into the handbag hanging off her shoulder. As she was walking away, the handbag erupted into finale of the “1812 Overture.” She fished out the phone, answered, listened for a few seconds, then turned and asked, “Is your name David?”

  “Yes.”

  She handed the phone back saying, “It’s for you.”

  As David took the phone from her, he recognized Jim’s number. But the voice on the line wasn’t Jim’s. It was the voice of the passenger seat guy saying they want the information and David better give it to them voluntarily or….

  David’s hands went cold, panic again gripping his insides. He ended the call.

  Friday, 4/22/2022, 4:26 p.m. PDT

  David knew that hanging up was not the right thing to do, but his brain short-circuited, as if he went unconscious for a few seconds. He had to think before he could talk to these people, and he couldn’t do it on his feet. He heard something and looked up.

  The waitress was standing in front of him saying, “Hey, are you all right?” There was a decidedly less friendly edge to her voice, as in “I’ve had enough of your drama.” David silently handed her the phone. She shrugged, took it, and turned to leave.

  David found his voice. “Wait!”

  The waitress turned again with a short, “Yes?”

  David stammered a bit and finally said, “Look, I don’t quite know how to explain this, but the people who just called are pretty bad guys.”

  A frown of distrust crossed her face. “And why is this my problem? There are many bad people in this town.”

  “Because they think I have something they want, and they now have your number.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, I think it’s easy to find people by their phone numbers.”

  The waitress fumed. “Damn it! I try to be nice to you, and you involve me in some shit?” With her accent, it came out as sheeet.

  “I am really sorry. It’s hard to explain. You can walk away, but I think you should know what’s going on. It might be nothing, but I’m not sure.”

  “Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not BS-ing me?”

  “No, I swear. Look, my hands are shaking. I called a friend of mine from your phone. He was waiting for me at Santa Monica tennis courts. A few minutes later they called me—or rather you—from his phone. They must have taken the phone away from him.”

  The waitress studied him for a moment. “You do look like you’ve seen a ghost. I‘m supposed to meet some friends on Santa Monica Promenade for dinner and a movie. I was going to work out at the YMCA first, but I guess I’ll listen to you instead. We can go to the Promenade, you tell me the story, and then I leave with my friends.”

  “OK.” David shrugged, wondering if he should have just kept his mouth shut.

  “Do you want to follow me in your car?”

  “I can’t. My car is at the Big 5 parking lot on Manchester and Sepulveda.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I was kidnapped. I escaped and ran.”

  “Now I know you’re BS-ing me.” The waitress turned. David watched her walking away. After a few steps she stopped, turned around again, and came back to his table. “Show me your driver’s license.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I want to know your name.”

  David produced his wallet with the license.

  She said, “David Ferguson, Culver City,” and typed something into her phone. David got curious. “What are you doing?”

  “For whatever strange reason, I believe you,” she said. “Just in case, I texted your name to one of the friends I’m meeting with later tonight. And I have pepper spray in my pocket, so don’t try anything. I’ll drive you to the Promenade; you can make your way from there. Let’s go. My car is two blocks away.”

  David followed the waitress out the door. A cab was pulling to the curb just as they walked out, but David decided to stay with the waitress. To go through yet another explanation would have been way too complicated for his current condition.

  “Why were these people trying to reach you by calling my number?” she asked.

  David started explaining but then said, “Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you the whole story from the beginning. I can’t make sense of it myself.”

  David had not been in this area in some time. It had clearly taken a turn for the worse. A few houses were boarded up, some in a state of disrepair. They walked by a few broken-down cars that nobody bothered to tow away. The not-so-faint smell of garbage assaulted him. Over the past few years LA had separated into well-to-do gated communities, run-down areas overrun by gangs and poverty, and the in-between pockets of shrinking middle class trying to keep their heads above water. This part was descending into the second category.

  The waitress moved with a purposeful stride until they came to an old Nissan Leaf. She opened the trunk, reached into one of the two gym bags there, and got out a T-shirt and an LA Kings cap. “These are my roommate’s. Why don’t you change? You still look like hell and your shirt has blood on it.”

  David glanced around. The waitress turned away, and the street was empty, so he quickly exchanged his dirty shirt for a tee that sported a faded “Life is short, pedal hard” encourage
ment, and put the cap on to cover the Band-Aid.

  As they drove off, the waitress said, “My name is Maggie.”

  “I’m David.”

  Maggie chuckled. “I know.” Then she added, “The full name is Margarita, but I shortened it.”

  David said, “The full name is David,” and immediately felt silly over making a stupid joke. To cover it up, he asked, “How many miles do you get on this?”

  “The manual says up to seventy-five. With this old battery, maybe fifty. But it gets me around town as long as I’m careful to plan how far I go. And it’s still much cheaper than buying gas.”

  They drove north on Main Street, crossed over Santa Monica Freeway, turned left on Colorado Avenue and right on Second Street. Right in front of the parking structure between Arizona and Santa Monica Boulevard, Maggie pulled into an open space. She said, “In Santa Monica, if you have an electric, they let you park at meters for free. I’ll move it after a couple of hours to save money. Let’s go to the coffee shop by AMC theaters.”

  David knew the place and did not particularly care for it, nor did he need any more coffee. But Maggie told him rather than asked, and he was always a bit intimidated by such forcefulness. Besides, he felt guilty about involving her in something that couldn’t possibly be good.

  The Third Street Promenade was more popular than ever. It was one of the few places where you could walk and mingle with hundreds of people in relative safety without spending much money. The retail shops went a bit downscale, but most managed to survive, benefiting from the traffic. Street performers created a cacophony of sounds. Sometimes too many would pack into a single block, leading to fights, which would be quickly broken up by the Santa Monica Police. That was another advantage: while bigger LA had cut down on their police department, Santa Monica had staffed up. It turned out to be a good investment; heavy police presence kept things in check.