Charlie Huston - Sleepless

Senior floated one hand through the air.

“Drifted from it. Lost focus, lost interest. All that energy. That ability. And the only thing he has ever stuck with are the damn games. That one damn game. He. He builds his life around that game now. So I, well, I’m his father, so I want to understand, be a part of what he loves, show him support, take him seriously. And I was, frankly, proud when he showed up and he’d, on his own, just through observation of the market, the implications of peak oil, credit collapse, infrastructure erosion, the outright impotence of the federal government, he saw that A-ND must have an outlet for off-market Dreamer. We were just getting it started, but that kid, smart as hell, he knew it was happening just because he could put it together. And he wanted a franchise. For himself.”

He raised and dropped his shoulders.

“I have backed him in so many ventures. But he had a plan, a model that made a kind of sense. In this world. He showed me the numbers on sleepless players in Chasm Tide, showed me the online markets where in-game valuables were trading, the currency exchanges between virtual and real. That was an eye-opener. And I thought, well, maybe this is it, a business tied directly to his real passion, maybe this will be the thing that he locks into. So I supplied him with a couple pallets. Made sure the pricing was in line with the rest of the off-market trade. We don’t gouge these people, Officer.”

He leaned forward.

“That should be very clear. We set the price. And if we hear that one of our franchisers starts to spread the margin and pocket the difference, we take action. And I do not mean that in any metaphorical sense.”

He leaned back.

“I’m in the pharmaceuticals trade, not the human misery trade.”

He shook his head.

“Not the human misery trade.”

He pointed vaguely east.

“Those people. In Washington. That homunculus in the White House. When I think about who our president could have been, who it should have been. Know the man who shot him had his NRA membership card on him? Bought his weapon at a gun show. Barely had to flash his driver’s license. That day, I burned my own card. Hardly matters anymore. Person wants a gun, they can find a gun. Well, those people in Washington, they turned out to be about as useless as everybody knew they’d be when it really hit the fan. A plague of sleeplessness. Democrats and Republicans trying to deal with a plague of sleeplessness. If it wasn’t for the tears, you’d laugh yourself to death. A plague of sleeplessness. Any wonder all the zealots are going even crazier than before? Like it should come after locusts and frogs and the deaths of the firstborn.”

He touched the part in his hair.

“So it gets left to people like me, people with influence, with some infrastructure of their own, people with money, it gets left to us to, hell, to make sure something is, something is left. That’s not right. That’s not my job. No one elected me. But hell, it’s got to be done. Someone has to do something. We can’t just walk away from the table, throw up our hands, say, ‘I’m out.’ This is what’s fallen to me, this is my duty, and I won’t shirk it.”

He turned the empty glass in his hands.

“Sorry. It’s late. I’m tired. Sometimes the frustration just comes out. It’s. It’s hard to look at the world and. It’s hard.”

He set the glass on the little table next to his chair.

“We were talking about Junior. And his interpretation of business. Long story shorter, I should have paid more attention, trusted my gut, said no. He turned it into a game. That crazy distribution, the caches, making people, sleepless or their family members or friends, stumble around town with RFID scanners looking for hidden bottles of Dreamer. Like it was a damn Easter egg hunt. And of course he lost interest, anyway. Just let someone else run the whole thing for him. Supposed to turn the money around, put it back in, buy more Dreamer, put it on the market, take his margin and do whatever he wanted with it. Put it in that sad club. I don’t know. But he didn’t. None of that money came back, not to pay the advance I gave him to acquire the first pallets, not to buy more. It was a small loss in terms of A-ND, but it needed to be covered. I did it out of my own personal accounts. On principle. It was my mistake. I paid for it. And I confronted the boy, told him to return what hadn’t been sold. Make good his debts. He offered me a spreadsheet of GPS coordinates. Told me he wasn’t even getting paid for most of the Dreamer. He was trading it outright for goods to equip his gaming teams. Bartering for ‘character art.’ Other things I didn’t understand. To my shame, I slapped him. Never did that before. Don’t believe anything good comes of striking your flesh and blood. And, well, that was that. It didn’t matter much what he was doing with the Dreamer once I covered the loss. His distribution method is slow, inefficient, and cruel, but you are correct, it’s nearly invisible. I asked some people in law enforcement to keep an eye on the streets, told them that some Dreamer might have leaked from the system. They understood. Set something up so they’d know if rumors started spreading, make sure the general public didn’t find out. Word got out that my son was dealing Dreamer, half the country would likely get burned down by the other half. We’re just that close to the edge of what people can understand and endure without running mad in the streets. And. And that’s about it. Pathetic is how it sounds. When I say it all aloud.”

Park stared at the man.

“The murders.”

Senior nodded.

“The murders.”

He shrugged.

“I never met the people Junior was in business with. But they were doing the nuts and bolts for him. Maybe they stepped on another dealer’s turf without realizing it. Started selling to sleepless south of the Santa Monica. We supply some very aggressive Dreamer franchises down there. Very protective of their clientele. And very traditional in terms of how they deal with competitors. Gangland sound like their style. Maybe it wasn’t even about Dreamer. That gold farming, if the numbers Junior showed me are real, that’s serious money. Could have been a competitor in that space. But Junior? Pulling the trigger? Or having those two ex-SEAL supermodels of his do it for him? No. He’s a, a difficult boy, frivolous, but there’s no killing in him. I may not be best friends with my son, but I know him that well. That well, at least.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Senior looked at the empty snifter again.

“I keep telling myself I may as well have another, but I hear my wife saying that one is enough.”

Park was slumping slightly, his elbow coming to rest on his thigh.

“Sir. SLP.”

Senior kept staring at the glass.

“No, you’re wrong about that. I wish I could tell you we poisoned the well. That there was a reason for it. Greed. It could be undone. But there is no peace of mind to be had there.”

He looked at Park.

“We did it, all right, people, I mean. We did it, but it wasn’t about greed. It was about hunger. Are you certain you want to hear this?”

Park didn’t move.

Senior closed his eyes.

“Not enough food. The people who were paying attention, they knew it was coming. No shock to a lot of us when the price of corn and beans and rice started to jump. Too many people. Not enough food. Poor distribution for what there is. The hungry getting hungrier. At its root, yes, it was market exploitation, seeking to take advantage of a massive demand, but it was also plain necessary.”

Park had straightened.

“What was necessary, sir?”

Senior opened his eyes.

“Know anything about transgenic plants, Officer?”