Warren Murphy: The End of the Game

"Is it illegal, Waldo? Tell me that. Are you doing something illegal?"

"You're damned right," he said.

Millicent turned back to the new color television set. "Keep it up. It's wonderful," she said.

The next month Waldo Hammersmith bought himself a new car with a check. The month after that he purchased his own taxicab with the medallion license worth five times the price of the cab itself. The month after that, he purchased two more cabs and hired other drivers for them.

The following month he sold the two cabs because the only way he wanted to deal with taxi drivers was from the back seat, giving them directions. That is, when his chauffeur was ill. Waldo had so much money from his growing Insta-Charge account, he moved from the Bronx to Park Avenue.

Millicent settled for a lump-sum divorce. She took the kids, and Waldo lived alone with closets full of clothes and new video games and television sets which he bought like he used to buy cigarettes. There had obviously been a computer error which was not going to be changed because only the computer knew. He didn't care whether the money was being taken out of someone else's account or out of some computer calculation somewhere or whatever. It was just there, some sort of grand welfare.

By year's end, it was no longer a gift or an error but his natural right. He found it very normal that every time he spent all the money in his account, it came back doubled and tripled.

And then it stopped growing. He almost phoned the bank to complain. The following month, it shrank. And then he got the first phone call.

It was a woman's voice, soft and massaging.

"We're so sorry that your funds have shrunk. Would you come in and pay us a visit?"

"My funds haven't shrunk. Everything is fine," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We just want to talk to you. Maybe you can use more money?"

"No, I'm fine," Waldo said. "Who is this?" His heart fell. They had found out. It was inevitable and now it had happened. Now they knew and Waldo Hammersmith was done for.

"Waldo," said the voice as beautiful as silver chimes. "Please don't play games. If there is one thing I hate, it is a person who plays games. Waldo, come in and we will get you some more money."

"Who are you?"

"Waldo, you have taken $1.47 million that is not yours."

"That much?" said Waldo. He could have sworn it was only a few hundred thousand but he had stopped counting. Why continue to count when you had all the money you wanted?

"That much, Waldo." The woman's voice was creamy smooth. Almost too smooth, Waldo thought. Almost mechanical.

"I didn't know it was that much," Waldo said. "I swear I didn't know it was that much."

The time had come to answer for the funds. The address the woman had given him was a bare office. The door was unlocked. Inside was one chair which faced a blank wall. It felt like a prison already.

"Hello, Waldo," came that beautiful voice. But she wasn't in the room.

"Stop looking for a loudspeaker, Waldo, and listen to me. You have had a good life recently, haven't you?"

"Not bad," Waldo said. It had been glorious. He felt his hands grow wet with sweat and wondered how long hacking would take to pay back the $1.47 million.

"It doesn't have to end, Waldo."

"Good. Good. It wasn't my fault. I didn't really know how big the overdraft was, you know. You go from fourteen hundred dollars to say a million and you sort of lose track. Kind of. Know what I mean? It gets away from you. For God's sake, have mercy on me. Please. I confess. I did it. Please."

Waldo was crying. He was on his knees.

"I'll do anything. Anything. I'll hack in Harlem. I'll pick up blacks on street corners at three A.M. Anything."

"Very good, Waldo," said the sinuous voice. "Although to be truthful, I wish you had shown some more resistance."

"Sure. I'll resist. What should I do? Don't send me to jail."

"Just reach under the chair," the voice said.

"With my hand?"

"With your hand."

He couldn't get his hand underneath the wooden chair fast enough. He picked up a splinter under his thumbnail, he reached so hard. There was a picture taped under the chair and he tore it out so quickly he ripped a small corner of it.

The picture was of a pretty young woman with a blond perky face, perhaps in her early twenties.

"That is Pamela Thrushwell. She is twenty-four, over here from England. She works at the International Computer Advancement Center of New York. You can call it the computer center."

"I've never killed anybody," Waldo said.

"Please don't jump to conclusions."

"Don't worry. Whatever it is, I'll do it," Waldo said.

"Good, because you'll like it. Do you think she's beautiful?"

"Yes."

"Listen carefully then. You will go to the computer center in downtown Manhattan and find Pamela Thrushwell and walk up to her and cop a feel."

"Excuse me. I thought you said I should cop a feel."

"I did," the voice said.

"Hey, c'mon," Waldo said. "What is this? What kind of game is this?" Waldo felt he could be outraged now that the voice had asked for such a thing.

"You don't have to do it, Waldo. No one is forcing you."

"I want to cooperate."

"I would hope so; $1.47 million is an awful lot of money."

"Do you have something reasonable?" Waldo said.

"I would say that a million and a half smackers for a feel is more than reasonable, Waldo. I don't have time. Do what you're told or the police get called in."

"Which breast?" asked Waldo.

"Either."

Waldo put the photo in his pocket. He wasn't sure if he should go into the computer center, reach out and do the job, or if he should take her out to dinner, soft lights, perhaps a necklace, maybe some kissing first, and then let his hand slide down ever so gently until he had breast in hand, duty done, back home to the Park Avenue penthouse and the good life.

Pamela Thrushwell decided the method for him. If he wished assistance on the complexities of the new mega-frame, mini-byte work analyzer and reach-space mode, Pamela Thrushwell would be happy to oblige. But she was not, thank you, there for dates, pleasantries, or to be picked up by perfect strangers.

Thank you again, Mr. Hammersmith. No, and no, thank you very much.

"You won't go out with me?"

"No."

"Then can I just cop a feel?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Just a little feel. I'll give you a thousand dollars."

"The nerve. Bugger off, Jack. That's cheek for you," said Ms. Thrushwell with a British accent so hard it could sharpen knives.

"Five thousand."

"I'm calling the police."

Waldo Hammersmith shut his eyes, reached out blindly until he had something soft in his hand, gave a squeeze, then ran out of the center with people yelling after him.

His coat flapped in the breeze behind him. His legs, unused to much more than climbing into bed or walking to his limousine, strained to keep the body moving. It was like a dream. His legs felt as if they were running but his body didn't seem to be moving.

Waldo was collared on a busy New York street in front of a crowd of people whose dreary days were always improved by the humiliation of another. He was really collared. The detective grabbed him by his expensive suit jacket and marched him back into the center like a child being forcibly returned home for dinner. Pamela Thrushwell's pale Britannic features were flushed red with shock.

"Is this the man?" the detective asked her.

Waldo tried to look at the ceiling. The floor. Anywhere but at Ms. Thrushwell. If he could have, he would have pretended that he didn't know himself.

"Is this the man who tried to cop a feel?" the policeman repeated.

Waldo would gladly have faced death instead of this humiliation. Why hadn't the voice asked him to rob a store? He could be arrested for armed robbery without too much shame. But copping a feel? Even the phrase was humiliating. Waldo Hammersmith committing a crime to finagle a fondle. His soul was shredded there in front of the growing crowd. He looked up to the ceiling, feeling unworthy even to pray. He saw television monitor cameras focusing on Pamela Thrushwell's desk. Even the monitors were hanging around. They didn't move to other parts of the center. Their unblinking eyes stayed focused on Waldo and he wanted to yell at them to do their job and cover the entire floor space.