F Wilson - Sims

The most open-and-shut scenario—he’d called itres ipso loquitor —was to arrange for Romy to be “injured” by a tenant-installed fixture. After some reconnoitering, the fluorescent box in the ceiling over the reception area had received the nod.

Romy was supposed to pull the string and let it crash to the floor, then stagger out and collapse in the hall, pretending it had landed on her.

Pretend…she’d never been good at pretending. How was she supposed to slump to the floor out there and moan and groan about being hurt and have anyone buy it? And the Manassas people, when they heard about it they’d know that what had happened here was all a sham, a set-up designed to drag them into the legal system and expose their corporate innards. They’d respond with lawyers using every possible legal ploy to keep their secrets.

They’ll play hide, we’ll play seek. A game.

But this was no game to her. Romy was serious. She’d show them just how serious.

Acting quickly, before the dental assistant could unlock her office across the hall, Romy stepped under the fixture and yanked on the line.

Her cry of pain was real.

7

Patrick sat in the driver seat of Zero’s van, idly watching the little office building. He’d parked across the street in a church parking lot—Our Lady of Something-or-other—and left the engine idling to run the heater, but he was keeping his window open to let out the pungent odor that seemed to be ingrained into the van’s metal frame. The driver seat felt like little more than a sheet of newspaper spread over a collection of rusty springs.

But the sharp jabs against his butt were inconsequential compared to the discomfort of sharing the van with the shadowy form seated behind him. Here was a perfect opportunity to probe Zero, maybe get a line on what made this bird tick, but Patrick found himself tongue-tied.

What do you say to a masked man?

Had to give it a shot: “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Zero’s deep voice echoed from the dark recess at the rear of the van. “Depends.”

“Why do you call yourself ‘Zero’?”

“That is my name.”

Ooookay. Try another tack. “How about them Mets?” That was usually a foolproof conversation opener, especially out here on the Island, even in the off-season. “What do you think of that last round of trades?”

“I don’t follow sports.”

Okay, strike that. Maybe if we concentrate more on the moment…

“You have any idea what this van was used for before you got it?”

“It was a delivery truck run by a Korean Christian group in Yonkers.”

“Smells like they spilled a gallon of roast puppy stew on the way to the annual church potluck dinner.”

Patrick heard a soft chuckle. “I can think of worse things to spill.”

Hey, he laughs!

“You mean, be grateful for small favors, right?”

“Small and large. I’m grateful the Reverend Eckert has finally been able to purchase space on a satellite.”

“That means he’ll be beaming his anti-SimGen sermons direct.”

“Right. No more worries about SimGen influencing the syndicate that distributes his show to local stations. Not only can he beam his shows to the syndicate, but he’s now got direct access to anyone with a satellite dish.”

“Nice. A big jump in audience.”

“I’m grateful too,” Zero said, “for how well you and Romy are working together.”

“So far, so good. She’s a piece of work.”

“That she is. One very intense young woman. Tell me, Patrick, do you hope for a closer relationship between the two of you?”

Patrick blinked in surprise. Odd question. “Do you mean working or personal?”

“Personal.”

“Is there something I don’t know?” he said, turning to look at Zero. He wished he’d take off that mask. “Is there something going on between you and Romy? Because if there is—”

Zero gave a dismissive wave. “Nothing, I assure you. I am…unavailable.”

That was a relief.

“Well, okay, but all I can say is, whether or not we go the next step is up to her. If you’re worried about a romance between us interfering with our job performance, rest easy. The lady has thus far found the strength of character to resist my charms.”

“Which I’m sure are considerable.”

“As me grandma used to say,” he said in a pretty fair Irish accent, “from yer lips to Gawd’s ear.”

“Speaking of God, I’ve been looking at this church. Are you Catholic?”

“With a name like Patrick Michael Sullivan, could I be anything else?”

“Practicing?”

“No. Pretty much the fallen-away variety. Haven’t seen the inside of a church for some time.”

“But you do believe in God.”

“Yeah, sure.” Where was this going?

“Did you know that some sims believe in God, even pray to Him?”

“No. I didn’t.” For some reason the idea made him uncomfortable. “Any particular faith?”

“They tend toward Catholicism. They like all the statues, although they find the crucifix disturbing. They’re most comfortable with the Virgin Mary. Pick through any sim barrack and you’ll usually find a few statues of her.”

“I can see that. A mother figure is comforting.”

“Sims pray to God, Patrick. But does God hear them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do sims have souls?”

“This is heavy stuff.”

“Most enlightened believers accept evolution. Genetics makes it impossible for an intelligent person to deny a common ancestor between chimps and humans. Some theologians posit a ‘transcendental intervention’ along the evolutionary tree, the moment when God imbued an early human with a soul. So I ask you, Patrick: When human genes were spliced into chimps to make sims, did a soul come along with them?”

“To tell the truth,” Patrick said, “I’ve never given it an instant’s thought until you just mentioned it.”

Who had time to ponder such imponderables? Zero, obviously. And it seemed important to him.

“Think about it,” Zero said. “Sims praying to a God who won’t listen because they have no souls. Imagine believing in a God who doesn’t believe in you. Tragic, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. But I wonder—”

The wail of a siren cut him off. He watched as an ambulance screamed into the parking lot across the street.

“You think that’s for Romy?”

“I imagine so.” Zero’s voice now was close behind him. “I told her to give it her best performance.”

They watched a pair of EMTs, a wiry male and a rather hefty woman, hurry inside. A few moments later they reemerged, pulled a stretcher from their rig, and hauled it inside.

“Wow,” Patrick muttered. “She must be bucking for an Oscar.”

He kept his tone light but felt a twinge of anxiety at the way those EMTs were hustling. A long ten minutes later they exited, wheeling the stretcher between them. But it wasn’t empty this trip. Patrick could make out a slim figure in the blanket. Had to be Romy. He noticed that her head was swathed in gauze…with a crimson stain seeping through.

“Shit!” he cried, fear stabbing him as he reached for the door handle. “She’s bleeding!”

“Wait!” he heard Zero say, but he was already out and moving toward the street.

No way he could sit in a van and watch Romy be wheeled into an ambulance by strangers when she was hurt and bleeding. Her gaze flicked his way as he dashed into the parking lot. When he saw her hand snake out from under the blanket and surreptitiously wave him off, he slowed his approach. And when she gave him a quick thumbs-up sign, he veered off and headed for the office building. He waited inside until the ambulance wailed off, then crossed back to the van.