Alan Cook - Run into Trouble

“It was started in the late forties by a group of retired military officers and scientists who wanted to make sure that the U.S. stayed on the leading age of weapons and war technology. In some ways we got caught flat-footed by World War Two.”

It had grown rapidly and become very large, all in twenty years.

Drake had a question. “Since it started small, as most companies do, how did it get its name?”

“That was a joke. You know how military men are with their big egos. They decided that if they were going to start a corporation, it was going to be a big one. In reality, it started in an old warehouse not much larger than a garage. It was just Casey and half a dozen scientists.”

“How did Casey get involved?”

“His father was a lieutenant general in the army and on the original board of directors of Giganticorp. He died a few years ago. Casey was a senior at Stanford, majoring in business. They were working on a shoestring and needed somebody they could get cheap to head it. They pulled Casey out of school and made him president. I suspect they were planning to bring somebody in over him if they were successful.”

Melody spoke above the murmur of the voices of hundreds of theater-goers, chatting as they drifted toward their seats. “It sounds like Casey was so successful they never replaced him.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. He proved to be good at getting military contracts-although, of course, the connections of the stockholders helped. The corporation grew faster than any of the founders had dreamed.”

“I take it you’ve grown with the corporation over the years.” Melody kept a straight face, not looking at Fred’s waistline. “What’s your position?”

“My official title is Vice President of Marketing Operations.” Fred pulled two business cards out of a pocket of his sport coat and handed one to each of them. “I get involved with a lot of special projects.”

“Like Running California.”

“Precisely. Although I have to admit that was Casey’s idea. He runs almost every day. I’m not a runner, but I admire people who can do that sort of thing.”

Fred was smiling at Melody as he said this.

“Are you going to help Casey with his Senate race?” Drake asked.

“He hasn’t asked me. I was as surprised as anybody when he made the announcement. He doesn’t have an organization yet.”

The sun had set, and the show would start soon. Drake still had a couple of additional questions. He watched Fred’s face closely. “Are you aware of anybody betting on the outcome of Running California?”

Fred looked genuinely shocked. “Betting? You mean betting on who will win?”

“Or who will finish and who will drop out?”

Fred shook his head so vigorously that the flab on his cheeks shook.

“No. This is a clean race. It’s strictly on the up and up. If you introduce betting, you have all sorts of possibilities-such as runners being tainted by the offer of money to do certain things. Why? Have you been approached?”

“No.” At least not in the sense Fred meant. “Just curious. Of course, the prize for the winning team is so much that it might be difficult to tempt anybody to throw the race who was in the running to win.”

Fred laughed. “That was Casey’s idea, too. There’s nothing like giving away a million dollars to get people’s attention.”

“But Giganticorp can afford it.”

“Yes, Giganticorp can afford it.”

The lights went out, and the audience hushed.

Melody spoke, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. “One more question. Are you married?”

“Yes. Since we have a day off tomorrow, I’m flying to San Jose to see my wife and three children. I have two girls and a boy.”

The orchestra started playing. Drake looked up at a million stars twinkling above them and hoped that the rest of the race would be as peaceful as it was here tonight.

While the players were depicting a painting that Melody was sure she had seen in the Louvre in Paris, Fred put his hand on her bare knee. A friendly gesture. From a man who had a wife and three children. Why did men like Fred think they were irresistible to women?

When the hand started to move up her thigh, Melody could almost hear his thought process: “Women are docile; she won’t make a scene in a stadium packed with people.”

She gave him a chance to reconsider his folly. When he started to go under her skirt, it was time for action. She laid her hand on top of his fat one. A friendly gesture on her part showing that she was enjoying his attention. She felt for his chubby little finger, giving him some sensory pleasure. She got a firm grip on it.

Slowly she started to bend his finger back. For the first few inches he might have seen it as an enjoyable form of sadomasochism. But she kept going. He tolerated it longer than she thought he would. Did she have to break his finger? Suddenly he snatched his hand away and rotated his body toward Drake. He didn’t look at her during the rest of the show.

Drake didn’t have his pants completely off when the telephone rang. He made the mistake of trying to hop to the phone with them around his ankles. A spasm in his back caused him to trip and fall forward. His nose hit the top of the nightstand, and he roared in pain. He sat on the floor with his back against the bed, trembling as he waited for the almost unbearable spears shooting through his nose and back to subside.

The phone continued to ring. He’d better answer it. Was he able to talk? He fumbled for the receiver and picked it up.

“Drake.”

“Are you all right?” Melody’s voice sounded frantic.

Drake cleared his throat and tried to speak above a mumble. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just had a little accident.”

“Is somebody there?”

“No.”

“Drake, somebody went through my things while we were at the show.”

He was now fully alert. “Did they take anything?”

“No, nothing’s missing.”

“Money? Jewelry?”

“I didn’t leave any money in the room. The jewelry I have with me is worthless. Nothing was nicked. What about your room?”

Now he understood what she was driving at.

“Just a minute.”

Drake set the telephone receiver on the nightstand and crawled across the threadbare rug on his hands and knees to his suitcase. His pants were still around his ankles, but he didn’t know whether he could stand yet, anyway. The suitcase was sitting on the floor against the wall of the motel room where he had left it. It took him a few seconds to open the latches because his hands were still shaking from the pain.

The differences were subtle, but he could tell that somebody had been in his suitcase. He arranged his clothes in a certain way from habit, left over from the days when he never knew who would be spying on him. Whoever had looked inside the suitcase had taken pains to cover his tracks, but he hadn’t done quite a good enough job.

Drake crawled back to the phone. “Somebody’s been in my things.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Wait…”

A click told him that Melody had hung up. She was only three doors away, so she would be here in a few seconds. Drake didn’t want her to see him like this. He struggled to a sitting position on the bed and pulled up his pants. He didn’t have his fly zipped or his belt buckled when there was a knock on the door.

“Just a minute.”

He made it to his feet, zipped his fly after fumbling a bit, and put the tongue of the buckle through the first hole in the belt. He tried to walk to the door without limping. He opened the door and saw Melody, clad in a green bathrobe and barefoot.

“You look terrible.”