Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Andy greeted him with a shout, “Not now!”

“We can’t piggyback—”

“Tell Tim to go home and stop causing trouble,” Andy said. “Get out and close the door.”

“Fuck you,” said the voice, but the door shut in a moment. Andy continued to stare at me through the glistening spots on his glasses. Finally, he turned, moving to the black terminal by the window. He flipped a button and it whirred, the monitor flashing awake. Rather than pull his chair over, he squatted on his haunches and typed at Black Dragon’s keyboard. “Come here.”

I moved beside him. A heading across Dragon’s screen said, COPLEY’S OUT BOX. Below was a list of dates and subjects. A bar of white color skipped down them, stopping at, “RE: Kenny Termination.” The screen blipped. The text of a memo from Copley to Minotaur’s comptroller appeared: “Since Gene Kenny is no longer an employee, the no-interest loan on his residence can be called as of July 1st, provided he is notified at least four weeks in advance. Do it today and confirm to my box.” The date of Stick’s memo was May 10th, two days before Gene’s suicide.

“Do you know what that means?” Andy asked, twisting to look at me. “I sure do. Was the letter sent?”

Andy typed more, got a menu heading, COPLEY’S IN BOX. He highlighted a return memo. The comptroller reported that a letter had been mailed to Gene’s home address (although he hadn’t lived there for a year) return receipt requested. It was signed by Cathy on May 11th, the day before she died.

Andy pressed a pair of buttons. The memo disappeared and the screen turned blue. He typed a command — ERASE: Dragonslayer search — and hit the Enter key. The screen responded: Search erased, Dragonslayer. He leaned forward and turned off the terminal. “The machines Gene built made Stick the owner of this company. When Copley started here, he was just a drone like us.” Andy sprung up from his squat. “Stick’ll give you money if you hold a gun to his head, but he won’t share his power. Never his power. I’m not a fool. I know who I’m dealing with. Gene didn’t.”

“How were you able to show me those memos?”

Andy smiled. He pushed his glasses up, although they were already in place. “I gotta get to work.”

“Could Gene invade the system like that?”

Andy shook his head no. “I told you, I’m not a fool. Unless the Prince of Darkness rips the Dragon network out, I’m in this company to stay.”

“The Prince of Darkness,” I repeated, amused.

“That’s what we call him.” Andy returned to his chair and focused on his troublesome prototype. “That’s what everybody calls him. Except for Gene. He told me that making up nicknames for authority figures just shows you’re really scared.” Andy glanced at me, smiling. “He get that insight from you?”

“Probably.”

Andy put his nose right up to a circuit board, peering through his dirty glasses at a jumble of cables. “Now why aren’t you happy, my little hard drive?” he asked in a Transylvanian accent. He continued to play Dracula, while he added to me, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Neruda. I’d appreciate it if you went out the way we came in. What the Prince of Darkness doesn’t know can’t hurt us.”

WHEN I APPEARED IN THE MAIN LOBBY, WITH AN AIR OF INNOCENCE, I didn’t have to ask to phone Laura. The receptionist greeted me as I approached. “Dr. Neruda? Mr. Copley is looking for you. Here,” she handed me a phone, “I’ll get his assistant.”

“Hello, Doctor,” Laura said cheerfully, as if we were old friends.

“Call me Rafe,” I said. “I’m a shrink. We’re not real doctors.”

She chuckled. “Oh, you shouldn’t give up your title so easily. Let me get him.”

“Dr. Neruda?” Stick came on instantly. “Did you bring your tennis racquet to New York?”

He had a knack for being surprising. “My tennis racquet?” I repeated dully.

“Edgar mentioned you’re a player. I have a doubles game tonight. Our fourth has dropped out, our backup is out of town, and I hate playing Canadian.”

Without thinking, I answered truthfully. “I haven’t played in years.”

“Oh.” Copley’s disappointment, even disapproval, went unconcealed. “Forget it.”

I recovered. “But I doubt I’ve forgotten how to win. I sure knew how to beat Edgar’s ass.” Saying that so embarrassed me, I turned my back to the receptionist, hoping she wouldn’t hear.

Copley was quiet for a moment. “That’s what he said,” he commented in a low voice. “You know, we don’t throw our racquets or anything, but we take tennis pretty seriously. How rusty are you?”

“If I hit for a half hour before we start, I’ll be fine. Do they have a pro there? He can warm me up.”

Copley jumped on this notion, proposing a variation. He said the game was at the Wall Street Racquet Club (he claimed that my being in Manhattan was why he thought of me) and he would get there at six, an hour before the doubles, to hit with me. He could use the practice, he said, not bothering to make that fib convincing. I was being checked out. And not as a permanent tennis partner, I assumed.

Should he send a car for me? he asked. I declined. Did I have my racquet? I decided against telling him I no longer owned a tennis racquet. I said I hadn’t brought it and would rent one from the courts. Oh no, he said, he’d arrange to have my model there. What did I normally play with? I couldn’t believe I was being caught in such a silly lie. I retreated into the dignity of poverty, assuming a hurt tone. I said firmly, “I can’t allow you to buy me a racquet. I’ll rent one at the courts.”

He wasn’t done with that issue, however. At the very least, he wanted Laura to call the courts to make sure they had my model for rent. (Probably if they didn’t, he would then have bought it.) At last, I found a way out. “You know, I’d rather play with a strange racquet. I’ve noticed it improves my concentration. I get so interested in observing how the new racquet plays that I focus better.”

“Huh,” he said, impressed. “That’s a great marketing idea for tennis. Buy a new racquet every week and win.”

“That’s me. Always trying to get the economy going.”

He said, “Anyway, Laura tells me it’ll have to be a Wilson. That’s all they have to rent.” There hadn’t been a break in our conversation. The magic phone was at work again.

“A Wilson will be fine,” I said.

Our date was set. In the excitement of its arrangement, Copley forgot to ask, or seemed to, about my talk with Andy.

There are places in New York where limousines congregate, their long and squat dark shapes almost blending with the city’s black gutters. They line up outside expensive restaurants from TriBeCa to Elaine’s, park at the right Broadway show on the right night, queue beside the Garden during the playoffs, are almost always present at Lincoln Center, and also, I discovered that evening, at the Wall Street Racquet Club. There were half a dozen docked by the sleek East River, in the shadows of the giant glowing green bubbles that cover Piers 13 and 14. The bubbles aren’t Martian spaceships, but protection for synthetic clay tennis courts, rented at hourly rates that, with twice-a-week use in a year, could cost you enough to build your own. The lockers are made of wood, the showers are multi-headed, there are redwood-lined saunas, the help is soft-spoken, and the customers complain the facilities are second-rate.

I arrived early to inspect the choice of rental racquets so my ignorance wouldn’t be revealed to Copley. When I played tennis regularly most people owned wood racquets. The few who used metal were seeing doctors for tennis elbow. I knew there wouldn’t be any wood racquets, but I was surprised there were no metal ones either. The technology had moved on to composite plastic and graphite models. They are dramatically lighter than the old woodies: it’s like picking up a tin frying pan instead of an iron skillet. I rejected the grotesque oversized head and wide-body types. They seemed like jokes to me, so large I couldn’t imagine how a player would know if he was hitting near the sweet spot. A pro gossiping with two clerks heard me make that comment. He said that with the oversize heads I didn’t have to worry about finding the sweet spot. The new racquets were so forgiving, even a ball struck near the edge of the frame has power. “Of course if you hit it in the sweet spot,” he added, not joking, “the ball will go long.”