Headcount: v5 Read online

  I could run. But where? And how? I wasn’t rich. Besides, how much more guilty could I make myself look if I disappeared? Nope.

  Which meant I had to kill Mo.

  Wait, what? How could that make any sense? Kill someone to avoid being framed for a murder I didn’t commit? Yeah, that would be a real upstanding thing to do, not to mention intelligent.

  Then suicide.

  Bullshit. I didn’t have the balls.

  Which meant the decision was made. I had an answer by the process of elimination. Like bullet points that get crossed out with tacky PowerPoint animation, just one option left:

  See what this crazy bitch wants you to do.

  FOUR

  The rest of that first day did not survive in my memory. I vaguely remember hitting the gym that night. The room service woman happened to walk by and she stopped in to say that the dinner menu was about to close and did I want to order my usual—the salmon. I don’t remember what I said to her, but she wouldn’t talk to me after that and she never brought the salmon to me again.

  I didn’t sleep that night but it didn’t matter. At least I was spared the dreams. I sat upright in bed with all the lights on and the television off. I thought about my mum and dad. No, I couldn’t turn myself in. They would never make it through the trial. Not to mention what they’d have to go through if I were convicted. Sure, they’d believe me when I swore I was being framed. But for how long? At some point maybe even a mother will start to believe what the judges and prosecutors and press are saying. After all, I did have sex with Simone. And in theory she would have had the ability to destroy my career if she wanted—enough motive for a jury these days. More than enough motive for a bloodsucking workaholic New York City management consultant. The press would damn well love it. Anyone who knows someone who’s been laid off would nod his head and cite the law of karma, even though management consultants almost never decide who’s going to get laid off. Damn that movie Office Space. And that George Clooney chick flick. Poisoning every possible jury pool. No way I’m getting into a courtroom. Especially not in Texas. Good lord, I thought, I am so screwed.

  Still, wasn’t it possible that Simone was actually alive? Sure, that picture looked real, but anyone can fake a goddamn picture these days. But it looked like a Polaroid, not a printout of a digital image. You can’t Photoshop a Polaroid, can you? Maybe not, but you can’t eat one either, as far as I knew.

  So could Simone be in on it? Could she be part of this ridiculous mission or whatever it was that my crazy psycho bitch boss was going off about? No. Simone was a cool woman. We had fun together. She was cool.

  I stood up and went to the window and cried. Not for me this time. Now I cried for Simone. Yeah, I was in some shit. But Simone was dead. What had she gone through? And why? So that Mo could set me up? Could Mo be that insane?

  She had to be, right? There was no other way to explain it. She was a goddamn lunatic. And she had me by the balls. So my choices were what again? I could cut and run. But I had nowhere to go and not enough money to get there. Plus, I couldn’t disappear on my parents, and I couldn’t make them accomplices, either. Maybe suicide wasn’t that bad an idea. No, it was actually a terrible idea. Not only would my folks live the rest of their days thinking I was a rapist and murderer, but they’d know I was a coward too.

  Then suddenly it became clear. The lack of sleep and dehydration seemed to bring me to a state of pure ecstatic realization. What had earlier seemed so insane now seemed obvious.

  I’d do it. I’d kill her.

  Well, maybe first try and get her to write down or videotape a confession. And if she wouldn’t, then I’d kill her. Maybe a knife or something. That shouldn’t be hard to get. Just a big kitchen knife would do. But what about her body? Cut it up? Pack it in garbage bags? Or suitcases? Or both? That seemed to work in movies, but I had no idea if it was feasible.

  I went to the table and started to make a list on hotel stationery. Then the phone rang. It was four in the morning, but the phone was ringing. I answered. It was Mo.

  “Good morning, Frank. Sleep well?”

  “Screw you, Mo.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. That was cruel of me. I remember my first night too. It was hell. Are you at the point where you’ve decided to murder me? Did I interrupt you while you were wondering what to do with my body?”

  “No, I already know what I’m going to do with your body. Slow-cook it like a big slab of Texas brisket. Then I’ll take it to the office and treat everyone to a slice.”

  “Oh my God, I love you. This is going to be so much fun.”

  “You crazy, crazy bitch. Tell me this is a joke. It is a joke, isn’t it? You saw me with Simone last night and the two of you are messing with me, right?”

  Mo went serious. “Sorry, Frank. I know how you feel. I’ve been there. It was tough for me to make the mental shift in the beginning, too. But I’ll be there to help. I’ll be the only one there to help.”

  “How do I know Simone is really dead? I need to see her body.”

  “You’re not in a position to make demands, Frank. Just trust me. You may think I’m a crazy bitch, and maybe I am. But I’m in control here, and you know it.”

  I started to cry again. “But Simone . . . she was slashed all over the face. What the hell is wrong with you? That wasn’t just murder. How long before I end up that way?”

  Mo was quiet. “Hey. Calm down, Frank. It’s not what it seems.”

  Now I screamed. “Then what is it? What the hell is it?”

  “Meet me in the lobby in ten. We’ll go for a drive. Bring your cigarettes.”

  I hung up. I punched the mirror but it didn’t break. I dressed and grabbed my smokes and headed down. Mo was already there. She wore black jeans and a red top that had a silhouette of the devil on it. I laughed when I saw it.

  She smiled at me. It was a warm smile and I was taken aback. “Come,” she said. “I’ll drive.”

  I followed her out into the parking lot. She asked me for a cigarette and I gave her one. We stood outside her car and she lit both our smokes with a single match. She smiled at me again. I wasn’t sure what to say or do so I waited and smoked.

  Finally she unlocked the car and motioned for me to get in. We drove out of the hotel lot and got onto the highway. After a few minutes she spoke.

  “Simone didn’t feel a thing. Everything you saw was done post-mortem. She died peacefully and on her own terms. On her own schedule.”

  I didn’t need to say that I didn’t understand.

  “Carbon monoxide. As painless as it gets. She sealed her house and then brought in a barbecue. We grilled some salmon and drank some wine. And then we said goodbye because it was time.”

  I looked at Mo. She was crying. Real tears. I was shocked.

  “I don’t understand. Simone killed herself? And you were there?”

  Mo nodded. “Not while she died. But I was there to say goodbye.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s how it works in our world. She was my Alpha and I was her Beta.”

  I stared at Mo.

  She continued. “And now I’m your Alpha and you’re my Beta. That’s how it works in our world. That’s how it works in the Network.” She turned and looked at me. She was dead serious. “Welcome to our world, Frank Stein. Welcome to the Network.”

  FIVE

  I was quiet. I didn’t look at Mo as she drove and smoked. She didn’t speak, but I could sense she was waiting for me to ask. I didn’t. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I wasn’t going to walk into her madness. She’d have to drag me. I waited for her to continue with this Alpha-Beta crap. She didn’t.

  “What do you know about Walker-Midland’s business?” she said.

  I looked at her and then looked straight ahead at the white lines on the black road. “I know they’re one of the largest US-based conglomerates. They own a bunch of random companies—everything from ice-cream to steel piping to condoms.”

  “Yes
. But do you know where they make most of their money?”

  “Not really.”

  “Fertilizer.”

  “Fertilizer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean like the shit they put on fields?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s literally shit, right? They sell shit to farmers?”

  Mo smiled. “Not exactly. Most farms produce their own manure or source it locally. Walker-Midland sells chemical fertilizers. That’s most of what goes on fields these days.”

  “Chemicals. Like nitrogen products.”

  “Yes. Nitrogen, phosphorus, and potash. The big three. Walker-Midland produces and distributes all three.”

  “Where? In the US?”

  “Of course. And elsewhere.”

  “Like where else?”

  “China, India, Russia—you name it. Walker-Midland is one of the top sellers in almost every country. They’re also one of the top employers of union labor in the world. And if you’ve ever seen the details of a union contract, you’d know this means Walker-Midland has some of the most hopelessly complicated payroll and human resources systems in the history of the universe.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

  Mo was quiet for the next ten or so minutes. The sky was turning from black to a deep blue. I looked at the clock on the dash—just past five in the morning. I yawned.

  “Sleepy? Or just bored?” Mo said.

  I lit another cigarette.

  Mo put her window down and the smoke rushed out. Then she looked at her rearview mirror before taking the next exit. I looked around. Nothing. Just barren Texas landscape. Mo smiled. “We’re here. This should wake you up. Or make things interesting at least.”

  We drove a few miles down a single-lane road and stopped in the almost-empty lot of a large unmarked warehouse. It had three small windows near the door, but the rest of the building was metal and sealed. We headed towards the door. Mo pounded on it. At first there was no answer and then a buzzer sounded. Mo pushed the door and it opened. We stepped inside the building.

  It was dim and yellow and smelled odd, as if someone had tried to recreate the stench of sweaty armpit by mixing chemicals in a lab. Straight ahead was a large closed door that probably led to the main warehouse floor. To our right was a narrow corridor with a half-open door at the end. I could see the flicker of a computer monitor in the room. Then a large figure opened the door wide and looked at us.

  “This way, guys,” said the man. He spoke with an Eastern European accent. His voice was coarse but gentle, like that of a father calling his kids inside for dinner.

  I followed Mo into the room. She shook the man’s hand and smiled.

  “Miroslav? I’m Mo Hussein. This is my colleague, Frank Stein. Thanks for seeing us so early.”

  The man smiled. He nodded at me and then turned back to Mo. “Oh, no problem, Ms. Hussein. It is very slow here at this time. And I am always happy to talk to consultants. Like that movie Office Space, yah?”

  I smiled. Fuck that movie.

  Mo laughed. “I love that movie. But as I told you on the phone, we’re not here to make any sort of personnel decisions or recommendations. You know, most consultants don’t do that stuff in real life. Especially these days. Terminating people is the job of the company’s managers.”

  Miroslav nodded. “Yah. You told me. But I never worry about my job. I am the only one who knows the payroll systems for this unit.” He dragged two chairs from the back of the room and set them near his desk. He motioned for us to sit. We did. Then Miroslav went behind his desk and sat down hard on the battered cushioned office chair. “So, what you need help with?”

  Mo cleared her throat. “We’ve been engaged to do efficiency audits of some of the operational processes at Walker-Midland. One of the areas we’ve been looking at is payroll processing and how the contracts with unions are implemented in the system.”

  Miroslav didn’t say anything. His expression changed for a moment, but I wasn’t sure if he was worried, confused, or had simply broken wind into his chair.

  Mo continued. “You are the local payroll manager for the Walker-Midland chapter of the nitrogen chemical workers’ union in Texas, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you are familiar with the various payroll concessions granted to members of your union at Walker-Midland, correct?”

  “Yes. I have to put them into the payroll system.”

  Mo smiled. “Then you can explain this clause I found built into the payroll system code. The clause that allows escalations in wages and other benefits for Texas workers that do the third shift five or more days a week.”

  Now Miroslav’s expression changed and I could tell he was worried. “Maybe. It was long time back. I try to remember. What is problem with clause?”

  “Well, it’s probably just a mistake the human resources and payroll operators made while performing data-entry, but I found it odd that fourteen of the twenty-six workers that fall under this clause seem to be based in Texas, but have direct deposit records that route their wages to bank accounts outside of the United States. Bank accounts in Poland, in fact.” Mo paused. “Miroslav—that’s a Polish name, isn’t it?”

  Miroslav gulped and looked away from Mo. “I can check up on this. It may be the case that some workers are on temporary assignment in Poland.”

  Now Mo stood up. “I don’t think so. What would they be assigned to in Poland?”

  “Probably same work. Poland also uses nitrogen fertilizer. There is lot of work there. Walker-Midland is big company.”

  “Yes. But Poland’s nitrogen fertilizer industry is only just starting to be privatized. It has been government-run thus far. And as far as I know, only a handful of European companies have been given permission to buy some of the Polish manufacturing facilities. Walker-Midland has no fertilizer operations in Poland.”

  Miroslav shook his head. “Maybe they are there for some other work. I do not know. I do not understand all this.” He held his hands up with palms facing out to Mo. “I only type in the numbers. I work with hands, not brain.” He cautiously laughed.

  Mo walked around to his side of the desk. Miroslav swiveled his chair to face her. She smiled at him and raised her hands to show her palms in the way Miroslav had done. “I can work with hands too.”

  Then Mo dropped to the ground and in one smooth motion rammed the heel of her palm into Miroslav’s knee. He screamed in a way that made me want to scream. I grabbed my own knee in an unconscious act of sympathy. I was a runner, and had found out the hard way that the knee is the most complex joint as well as the one that can generate the most pain if the alignment is upset. And it was safe to say that Mo had upset the alignment. In fact, from the way the big man was now sweating and howling, I’d say she had pushed the patella so far back that his femur was scraping against his tibia. You don’t need to know what those terms mean to guess that the result is the kind of pain that makes you forget everything. All you can think about is how badly you want it to stop.

  I should have said something but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just sat and watched. Yes, I was horrified to some extent. No, I’m not a fan of inflicting pain on anyone for any reason. But yet I wasn’t as revolted and freaked out as I thought I would be. I wasn’t as upset as I wanted to be. What scared me more than watching my boss smash a random person’s knee-cap was that I wasn’t as scared as I should have been. What made me sick was that I was looking at Mo in awe. There was something beautiful about her calmness and precision. There was something inspiring about her expressionless determination. Perhaps I was already numb from what had happened to me. Maybe the lack of sleep made me believe I was in a dream. I don’t know what it was, but it was something.

  Mo looked at me. She didn’t say anything. After watching me for a few moments, she nodded and then turned back to Miroslav. He had stopped screaming and was sitting frozen, still oozing sweat and dribbling spittle as he made a whimpering sound
that harmonized well with the squeaks coming from his quivering chair. Mo leaned past him and pulled up his e-mail program on the computer. She opened a new message window and typed a paragraph of text. Then she looked at her BlackBerry and copied a list of what I imagined to be names. Probably the fourteen names she had mentioned.

  Mo stepped back and faced Miroslav again. “Stop crying, big man. Don’t worry, I’m not going to break your other knee.” She moved close to him. “But I am going to kill you.”

  The big man stammered, and I could see droplets of saliva spew from his trembling mouth. “No. Please. I have a daughter.”

  Mo whispered. “You should have thought of that before you decided to do what you’ve done. What about the fathers and mothers and daughters of the people your acts have killed? The Romanian Gypsies? Polish Jews? Albanian Muslims?”

  “Please. No. I give you anything. I do anything. Why you do this? You are police? Government? You must arrest. You cannot kill.”

  Mo shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miroslav. I don’t like to kill. I know that every life I take makes me less human. But we all make sacrifices. And we all make choices. Someday I will answer for what I have done. But not today. Today is your day. Today you will answer for what you have done.”

  Now the man leaned forward. He was begging. “No. I do nothing. This big mistake.”

  “There is no mistake. We have traced the fourteen bank accounts linked with those names. I had hoped it would be as simple as you siphoning money to your poor family in Poland. But you have no family in Poland. Then I hoped you were just a regular greedy thief, sending money to your own secret accounts. That would be fine. Simple embezzlement, and we wouldn’t even be here. But it’s not that simple, is it?”

  Miroslav didn’t speak. His eyes had gone cold and he had stopped whimpering. His breathing slowed down and he stared into space. He knew he was going to die.

  Mo looked at me. “This man has been funding three separate European genocide groups that are based out of Poland.”