"Gator A-GO-GO" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorsey Tim)Chapter TwoFORT MYERS Coleman turned around in his passenger seat. “We got another that likes to bang.” “Note to self,” Serge said into a digital recorder. “Soundproof trunk.” The Challenger pulled into a strip mall. “What are you doing?” “My new business. Spring-training tickets and trunk insulation aren’t free.” Serge got out, popped the rear hood and motioned with a pistol. “Would you mind rolling a little to your left? You’re on top of something I need… Thanks.” He closed the trunk. They started at the far end of the shopping center. Dry cleaners. Bells jingled. Serge approached the counter. “Can I help you?” “No, but I can help you!” said Serge. “Hate to cold-call like this, but spring training left me no choice.” “I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “We don’t allow solicitors.” “Then we’re brothers in the struggle!” Serge held up his hand for a high five that never came. The clerk looked curiously at Coleman, swaying and drinking from a paper bag. Serge slapped the counter. “Pay attention! Opportunity knocks! Sometimes it plays a tambourine or makes shadow puppets, but mostly it knocks. Are you ready? Bet you can’t wait! Knock-knock! Hi, I’m Opportunity!” Serge placed a pile of large, thick-stock white cards on the counter. He flipped up the top one, covered with Magic Marker handwriting. NO SOLICITING. The clerk scratched his head. “You’re soliciting to sell ‘No Soliciting’ signs?” “I know! Can’t believe it hasn’t been thought of before: The perfect mix of product and presentation. We came in here creating a problem “I-” Serge pounded the counter again. “Hell no! You have important stains to get out and can’t waste time with every bozo who wanders in from the street with bottles of the latest stain-removal craze, but they’re really just giving all their money to a doomsday cult with their fancy suicide machines and little or no interest in the laundry arts. I’m sure they’ve already been in here a thousand times.” “Not really-” “Five dollars,” said Serge. “I’ll even throw in ‘No Public Rest-rooms.’ That’s actually more critical. Ever seen a restroom after Coleman’s done his fandango?” Serge whistled. “Not a pretty picture.” “I don’t think-” “There’s a guy in our trunk,” said Coleman. “Maybe I need to amp the presentation.” Serge leaned comfortably against the counter and stared at the ceiling. “I love dry cleaners. Could hang out for hours…” Coleman raised his hand. “Can I use your bathroom?” “… Always wondered,” said Serge, idly tapping his fingers. “What the fuck’s Martinizing?” “If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.” Next stop, dentist office. Same story. Accounting firm, ice cream parlor, nope, nope. Computer repair, walk-in clinic. “Howdy! Pay no attention to the man behind the beer…” The owner of the dog-grooming service pointed at an already-posted NO S OLICITING sign. “My point exactly,” said Serge. “Did it stop “Out!” They reached a drugstore. Serge pulled a handwritten list from his wallet and headed toward the back. “Wait up,” said Coleman. “Aren’t you going to sell your signs?” “Not yet. Have to pick up a few things. Let’s see…” He began grabbing items off shelves. “… Nylon rope, pliers, razor blades, duct tape-naturally-nine-volt batteries, broom, saw…” “One of your projects?” Serge turned up the next aisle. “If this baby doesn’t win me a grant… Kwik Dry superglue, wire cutters, tape measure, kite string…” He finally arrived at the counter and tried to pay with some signs, but the cashier said they only took dollars and credit cards. “But America was founded on a barter economy.” Serge reached for his wallet. “That’s the whole problem with stores. It’s all about money.” Serge walked across the parking lot and opened the Challenger’s trunk. A head popped up. He smacked it with a tire iron. “Not your turn.” Coleman peed on the side of the building. The front side. He straggled over. “We didn’t sell any signs… What are you doing now?” “The free market was built on artificial demand.” Serge rummaged through the trunk and removed a larger sign on a wooden stake. He hammered it into the ground next to the road. They drove away. Downtown came into view. “ Fort Myers, City of Palms!” Serge raised a camera. “Serge, do we really have to watch a stupid baseball game?” “It is not stupid.” “Nothing happens. Dudes stand in a field a long time, then every once in a while someone runs a little bit, then they stand around again.” “They serve beer.” “I love baseball.” A few miles back, passing motorists stared curiously at a sign in front of a strip mall. CLEAN P UBLIC R ESTROOMS (S OLICITORS E AT F OR F REE). “We’re here!” said Serge, screeching into the parking lot. “Spring training home of the Red Sox!” “Thought the Tampa Bay Rays were your favorite team.” “They are,” said Serge. “ Boston was my team before Florida had any, but now we do. And that’s why we drove down here today. They’re playing the Rays! Anyone who doesn’t root for his home team deserves to be spat upon and have his head shaved like those French chicks who screwed Nazis during the Resistance.” “Are there Nazis at spring training?” “Yes, but they keep a low profile in the bleachers and are now too old to goose-step and start their shit again.” Serge grabbed a baseball glove from the glove compartment. “I’m getting a ton of foul balls!” “How can you be so sure?” “You haven’t seen me in action.” 19 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT City plows had pushed the previous day’s snowfall into dirty banks. People bundled in thick coats walked quickly along Lans-downe Street, heads ducked low in the icy wind. They were made even colder by a structure towering up the south side of the road that blocked the sun. At its top, thirty-seven feet above street level, sat a cantilevered balcony. More foot traffic came around the corner, scurrying past the back side of the Green Monster, the fabled left-field wall at Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. One of the pedestrians blew into freezing hands as he reached Brookline Avenue and made a sharp right turn, climbing through the gray, wet crust. He grabbed a door handle and jumped inside. Rambunctious chatter and cheering. Waitresses rushed by with teetering trays. Overhead TVs everywhere, all the same channel. The man rubbed his arms and climbed onto one of the few vacant stools. A finger went up for the bartender. “Sam Adams.” The televisions showed a news correspondent in bright natural light, surrounded by palm trees and dozens of screaming, waving people with baseball caps and ghostly non-tans fighting their way into the camera frame. “ “ “ “ Beer arrived. The man on the next stool looked out the windows at dreariness, then up at the TV. “I’m jealous.” “Tell me about it.” “Well, if you can’t be there in person…”-he glanced around the pub’s crowded interior-“… Cask’n Flagon is the next best.” “Won’t argue with that.” The man extended a hand. “Carl Lemanski.” They shook. “Patrick McKenna.” Eyes back to the TV. “Lucky sons of bitches.” “ “I’m a supervisor at the water department,” said Carl. “Day off?” “No.” He signaled for another beer. “So what are you into, Pat?” “Hard to explain.” “Try me.” “Fancy title is ‘commercial location specialist.’” “Never heard of it. What do you do for that?” “Count parking spaces.” “Spaces?” “Or at least ones with cars in them.” “Seriously, what do you do?” “Seriously.” “ “That’s really a job?” “Boring stuff.” “I’d like to hear.” “You would?” In most circumstances, Patrick was economical about himself. But more beer came and the Sox took the lead. “Niche specialty, skyrocketing demand.” “From who?” “Chain stores and mall developers,” said Patrick. “Always expanding into new markets. But pick the wrong location, it’s an expensive mistake. And at least one person’s job.” “That’s where you come in?” “Scout the competition. If a rival chain’s already got a store in the target locale, we count customers’ cars in the parking lot. Various hours, weekdays, weekends, Christmas rush. Then crunch raw numbers into usable data that determines whether the location can support a second store. Or a whole shopping center.” “ “But doesn’t that take a lot of time?” “Back in the day, it took a “Every car?” Patrick shook his head. “Estimates with geometric sampling equations, but statistically reliable.” “I had no idea this was going on.” “It isn’t anymore. Today, computers do it all.” “Computers count cars?” “No, satellites.” “You just lost me.” “Like the proliferation of the Internet. In the beginning, when they first made orbital photography available to the private sector, resolution was too low. Plus you’d be lucky to find a picture a month of your site-not enough to extrapolate consumer behavior. But now…” He made an offhand gesture toward the pub’s ceiling. “… So many whizzing around up there I’m amazed they don’t crash into one another, and not just government ones anymore. If you buy from all the ser-vices-which we do-you can get several shots a day.” “Must cost a fortune.” “It does. But our customers pay even more because it’s nothing compared to the price of an empty store,” said Patrick. “And photo resolution’s gotten so good we just started a new service: analyzing makes and years of cars so we can sell reports on shopper demographics, including income level.” “You can tell all that from a satellite photo?” “Up to seventy percent accuracy, but we’re shooting for ninety by year’s end.” “Wow. Sounds really interesting.” “More so than actually doing it.” “ The water supervisor looked up at the TV. “Is that guy out of his fucking mind?” “And here come the security guards,” said Patrick. “ The TVs switched to a local news update. “ Carl formed a disgusted look. “Been following this story?” “Horrible.” “They act like there’s hope, but frig it. She’s already dead.” He drained his mug. “What’s happening to the country? It’s a constant backbeat of abducted kids and college students…” “Or wives who go missing,” said Patrick, “and the husbands appear on camera like they’re okay with it.” “ “Shit.” Carl jumped up and grabbed his coat. “You didn’t see me.” |
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