1
The day Jake Toronto triggered the downfall of a cable TV network, I was in my office thinking about my upcoming vacation. My suitcase, already packed for the beach, sat in the corner. An image of my wife Marcia in her bikini floated in and out of my mind. Nicole worked on her computer in the office next to mine. I was busy tending to some last minute paperwork that included shuffling through a stack of soon-to-be-due bills at the moment to determine who, beside myself, was most in need of getting paid.
Toronto’s text pinged my mobile. I barely noticed and didn’t even bother giving it a look. The fax went off at the same time, the one down the hall we shared with the web startup and the two Russians, and I almost ignored it, too. The machine was probably spitting out another cryptic cipher bearing specs for Slavic network servers like those the two Russians occasionally received. Then again, it could be a missive from one of our lawyer clients informing us we’d been named in some multi-million dollar lawsuit.
“Did you hear the fax?” I asked loudly enough to be heard through my open door.
“What?” Typing away on her keyboard, Nicole had apparently ignored the sounds as well.
“Never mind. I’ll get it.”
The first Thursday in a Charlottesville August was a scorcher. Hot enough to spawn insta-sweat for anyone who ventured outside. Through my window, down on Water Street, two men from the phone company worked a bucket truck against a pole. The five o’clock sun threw long shadows from the buildings. Across town, the university slept its summer slumber. Traffic moved as if in a dream. Almost everybody we did business with—attorneys, insurers, and other ne’re-do-wells—was away somewhere on vacation. A persistent fly darted around my office, confident, apparently, that he owned the place.
He could have it, as far as I was concerned. Nicole would keep the creaky wheels of commerce—such as they were—running, while I, in a matter of hours, would be joining Marcia on the sand at the Outer Banks with one of her custom made Rum Daiquiris in my hand.
To celebrate, I had taken an extra long lunch on a bench beneath one of the poplars lining the downtown mall in order to finish the final chapters of Mark Helprin’s Memoir from Antproof Case . I had even splurged on a new Hawaiian shirt recommended by that impresario of tropical wear Dave Taylor, owner of my favorite Charlottesville bookshop, Read It Again Sam . Might as well try to get started on my vacation a little early.
I was just about to rise from the chair to check out the offending fax when a door opened across the hall. The wall vibrated as someone clomped over to the machine. The building’s part-time receptionist had already escaped for the day, but it didn’t make any difference: secrets never lasted around here. There was a delay before I heard the sheet being ripped from the platen. Then the clomping continued to my half-open door.
“For you,” a voice said.
It belonged to one of the Russians, a curious combination of foreign and acquired Dixie undertones. He stood in the doorway, the curled paper lodged between his meaty fingers. An amiable fellow, big and broad-shouldered. His nose had long ago been surrendered to a roseacea that seemed to ripen further every time I saw him.
“Thank you.” I stood and took the sheet from him.
He didn’t move.
“Business okay?” I tried not to sound too encouraging of discourse.
“Some days okay ... Some days, not so okay.”
I nodded. He still didn’t move.
“Today?” I asked.
“Not so okay.” He finally turned and left, his feet falling less loudly down the hall than before.
Returning to my chair, I uncurled the fax. The Russian was right. It was for me and I didn’t like what I was reading.
I glanced at my suitcase in the corner, already packed for the beach, and sighed.
“Hey, Nicky,” I called through the doorway into the next office. “Any idea why Toronto would be
The day Jake Toronto triggered the downfall of a cable TV network, I was in my office thinking about my upcoming vacation. My suitcase, already packed for the beach, sat in the corner. An image of my wife Marcia in her bikini floated in and out of my mind. Nicole worked on her computer in the office next to mine. I was busy tending to some last minute paperwork that included shuffling through a stack of soon-to-be-due bills at the moment to determine who, beside myself, was most in need of getting paid.
Toronto’s text pinged my mobile. I barely noticed and didn’t even bother giving it a look. The fax went off at the same time, the one down the hall we shared with the web startup and the two Russians, and I almost ignored it, too. The machine was probably spitting out another cryptic cipher bearing specs for Slavic network servers like those the two Russians occasionally received. Then again, it could be a missive from one of our lawyer clients informing us we’d been named in some multi-million dollar lawsuit.
“Did you hear the fax?” I asked loudly enough to be heard through my open door.
“What?” Typing away on her keyboard, Nicole had apparently ignored the sounds as well.
“Never mind. I’ll get it.”
The first Thursday in a Charlottesville August was a scorcher. Hot enough to spawn insta-sweat for anyone who ventured outside. Through my window, down on Water Street, two men from the phone company worked a bucket truck against a pole. The five o’clock sun threw long shadows from the buildings. Across town, the university slept its summer slumber. Traffic moved as if in a dream. Almost everybody we did business with—attorneys, insurers, and other ne’re-do-wells—was away somewhere on vacation. A persistent fly darted around my office, confident, apparently, that he owned the place.
He could have it, as far as I was concerned. Nicole would keep the creaky wheels of commerce—such as they were—running, while I, in a matter of hours, would be joining Marcia on the sand at the Outer Banks with one of her custom made Rum Daiquiris in my hand.
To celebrate, I had taken an extra long lunch on a bench beneath one of the poplars lining the downtown mall in order to finish the final chapters of Mark Helprin’s Memoir from Antproof Case . I had even splurged on a new Hawaiian shirt recommended by that impresario of tropical wear Dave Taylor, owner of my favorite Charlottesville bookshop, Read It Again Sam . Might as well try to get started on my vacation a little early.
I was just about to rise from the chair to check out the offending fax when a door opened across the hall. The wall vibrated as someone clomped over to the machine. The building’s part-time receptionist had already escaped for the day, but it didn’t make any difference: secrets never lasted around here. There was a delay before I heard the sheet being ripped from the platen. Then the clomping continued to my half-open door.
“For you,” a voice said.
It belonged to one of the Russians, a curious combination of foreign and acquired Dixie undertones. He stood in the doorway, the curled paper lodged between his meaty fingers. An amiable fellow, big and broad-shouldered. His nose had long ago been surrendered to a roseacea that seemed to ripen further every time I saw him.
“Thank you.” I stood and took the sheet from him.
He didn’t move.
“Business okay?” I tried not to sound too encouraging of discourse.
“Some days okay ... Some days, not so okay.”
I nodded. He still didn’t move.
“Today?” I asked.
“Not so okay.” He finally turned and left, his feet falling less loudly down the hall than before.
Returning to my chair, I uncurled the fax. The Russian was right. It was for me and I didn’t like what I was reading.
I glanced at my suitcase in the corner, already packed for the beach, and sighed.
“Hey, Nicky,” I called through the doorway into the next office. “Any idea why Toronto would be
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