CHAPTER 7 - BEAST STREET SCENE

Sindy entered her office with a headache. As she turned on the light she was greeted with a mess. Her desk was overturned, he chair lay upside down its seat stuffing spilling out at the sides from deep cuts and splits. She dropped the greasy Strawbucks bag on to a pile of unopened spam. Her papers lay strewn all over the floor in complete confusion. “Ah,” she said to no one in particular, “home sweet home. Just as I left it.”

Puling up her chair and righting her desk, Sindy fished inside the desk drawer and found her schedule of appointments for the day. Sindy took a sip of her Dopy Expressino. Let’s see, she thought, it’s three o’clock and besides the covering the opening of boring scientific conference, what else do I need to get done, before we proof and dummy this rag? She loved newspaper talk, more than she loved ‘dirty’ talk.

After the conference at 7:00 pm, she had two options, go home to sleep, or attend the ‘Dance Till You Drop’ competition in her home town of Heart of the Ocean in the Sim of Sonogno. While sleep sounded like a good idea, ‘Dance Till You Drop’ always generated good copy and she was a little behind on her quota. Rummaging through the chaotic pile of papers in the “corner of notices” where she kept flyers, admonitions, lowdown, memo’s and poop sheets she found her invitation and it was for tomorrow night. Good she thought. Sleep is in the plan.

Ruprecht Murdstone, Executive Editor of the Times, had assigned Sindy to be Acting Science Editor, because Acell Algon, the previous Science Editor, had to be committed to the Scary Ward of the Home for the Occupationally Insane. He simply could not reconcile the virtual with the real, and with time he had become totally odd. Then Acell went totally nuts. Murdstone had decided that Acell was simply too intelligent for the task and besides he used too many big words. Murdstone was against big words because he felt they were wasteful of ink and paper and reduced advertising revenue. Why use a big word when a small one will do, Murdstone was always saying. He was always storming into journalist’s offices and demanding to know why they had chosen to use a word like ‘canoodle’ when ‘kiss’ was perfectly good. Or he would say why use ‘abhorrence’ when ‘hate’ was shorter.

His insistence on short words made some sense given the readership of The Times, but on the other hand it drove reporters like Acell to the edge of madness. Sindy remembered when Acell had begged Sindy for a four letter word for ‘idiochromosome’ and when Sindy suggested ‘sex’, a three letter word, Acell fell to the floor weeping. “That’s so wrong,” he moaned. Shortly after that Acell stopped talking and then a few weeks later he disappeared. Later when Sindy was covering a charity event, the ‘Ball for the Insane’, sponsored by the Find a Cure for AFK Foundation, she had discovered that Acell was locked up in a padded cell in the Home.

The event had been held in the Home’s east wing where nobs and blue bloods were locked up and the loonies were on display to elicit sympathy and obtain greater donations. Acell was not a blue blood and was in the derelict west wing for those covered by The Times health plan, if you could call it that. Sindy had gone looking for a clean bathroom. This was always a bad idea in a Home for the Occupationally Insane. She had taken a wrong turn and then looked into a large caged padded room crowded with avatars dressed or undressed in a wide variety of unique looks. At first Sindy thought this might be the fashion wing, because most of the clothes were trendy and hot currant. Eventually she realized that this was not the case, but not before she spotted Acell.

Acell came running to the bars when he saw Sindy.

“Sindy!” he cried. “You gotta get me out of here. Please, please.”

Sindy could only stare into his red crazed eyes. Acell’s hands were trembling uncontrollably and his white hospital gown was filthy.

“Please Sindy,” he screamed. “I’m not nuts! I promise to be good. Yes. Oh Sindy please.”

Sindy was moved by Acell’s pleas but he was locked up in the Home, so by definition he was nuts. He was also desperate, realized Sindy, and she backed away from the bars. Acell became more desperate as Sindy distanced herself.

“Now Sindy, Please don’t go, Sindy please don’t go, Sindy please don’t go back to New Orleans, You know I love you so.” He was singing realized Sindy and really loud and off key. As nutty as a California Mix thought Sindy.

Sindy moved further back. She needed to get out of there.

Acell grew desperate. He started drooling and as he screamed Sindy’s name spittle flew from his lips. The entire effect was shocking. So Sindy did what all good reporters do, she pulled out her me-Phone and took some snaps. She was formulating a headline and a kicker for a Sunday supplement on Great Minds Gone Bad, when Acell started to turn red. Sindy was becoming very uncomfortable.

A gentle nurse with a kind smile and knowing eyes came forward and placed a loving hand on Acell’s shoulder before she zapped him with her tazer. Acell fell to the floor writhing in agony. The kind nurse stroked Acell’s forehead and spoke softly to him in a most assuring way. Then she zapped him again for good measure.

Sindy turned and walked away. Sindy was depressed and shocked by the whole incident. As she quickly walked back toward the music and gaiety she heard Acell shouting in the distance.

“Loopy Loo Nags! Loopy Loo Nags!” Acell Screamed over and over again. Poor guy thought Sindy. Murdstone was right, big words were bad.

Mallory Sauternau approached the Reserve Bank building from the south along Alameda del Museo. She had chosen the round about way to the Bank. Mallory wanted to think. Think hard about recent events. The odd rumors, the freaky disappearance of small items from her inventory closet, and the street sweeper that had gone berserk last week and attacked the Dowdily Building. All was a puzzle thought Mallory.

Mallory left her two room office flat in the ancient and crumbling Dowdily Building and stepped onto Beast Street. Mallory paused for a moment as she always did to take in the street scene. Mallory had lived a charmed life in a city known for violence, indifference, and corruption. She had been careful, and years of dodging bullets, knives, and court orders had taught her a lot about criminals, thieves, and politicians.

Mallory wore a short pleated grey wool skirt and the hem fell just above her shapely calves. With a bit of chill in the autumn air she had worn knee high grey boots with sensible two inch stiletto heels. The shoes were Ferriguano knock offs from the Shoe Stadium on Ragnachar Avenue. A light beige silk shirt and a warm grey-green winter coat completed her wardrobe. In her hand she held the heavy package given to her by the Bank President months ago. It was heavy and unopened. In her other hand she held a small well used but still fashionable leather purse by Gnocchi. The purse was not a knock off and it was one of the few things she had that Sam had given her before Goodword. Goodword she thought, its shadow still fell across capital city like bottom of the bay of Fumis. The city was just as dark and it smelled just as bad.

Mallory reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Galois. She put one to her lips as the Capital to Palace Omnibus passed by packed with vacationers, day trippers, and pick pockets looking for an easy mark. Mallory lit the cigarette. She took a deep draw and held it for a moment before exhaling.

Down Beast Street at the Museo the tourists were lined up around the block. She could see that two rent-a-cops were taking forever to frisk the tourists before allowing them into the Museo. The young girls were getting the worst of it. The Possum Hot Dog cart was swamped with customers.

“Their dirty,” murmured Mallory. The rent-a-cops were on the take. Possum Corporation thought Mallory. The rent-a-cops were getting a percentage of the till. That’s why the line moved so slowly. Mallory laughed a small laugh. Little worry creases around her eyes broke through her foundation as she laughed. A bit of tobacco had stuck to her tongue and she spit it out from between her pouty full red lips.

Mallory looked up Beast Street to the north toward The Times Building. News urchins were streaming out of the side entrance with 30 pound bundles of news papers under their arms. As one kid, in short tweed trousers gathered just below the knees, with argyle socks, and a news kid’s cap came walking down Beast toward the Museo. “Extra, Extra, Linden’s to Tax for VAT, extra, read all about it!” the kid was yelling. Two shapely young women in dark blue woolen pants suits with cute eisenhoover jackets, were strolling down Beast Street chatting loudly about some guy they dumped last week. They were giggling loudly. Bank employees thought Mallory. Probably counter girls hired for their good looks and lack of guile. Except where men were concerned thought Mallory.

“Well did you do it?” asked the taller girl to the other.

“I’m not saying,” the shorter girl replied, “but he was a real looser in that department.”

The other girl laughed loudly and said “Yeah, I know. His mother told me so.”

“You knew his mother?” asked the other.

Mallory shifted her attention to a hip socialite trying to hail a pedi cab. She held a small brown paper bag with ‘Bag’ written on the side in large orange letters. Expensive thought Mallory. Probably contains lingerie she can use to tease lindens from her too busy executive husband, and then satisfy her real needs with his golfing caddy or the perhaps the pool boy. With her looks she was probably doing both.

At the far end of Beast Street, at the corner of the Avenue of the Sims, stood the old stone fortress of the Yellow Knights, who were so recently in the press. Showed their true colors thought Mallory. She chuckled and dropped her dying cigarette on the worn stone steps and ground the embers into the ancient stained tier. With a last careful look she stepped onto Beast Street walked north to the Avenue of the Sims. She turned left at Ragnachar and left again at the Alameda del Museo. On the right side of the street stood the massive fortress like white marble Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life

Mallory jaywalked across the street to the Bank. Not a cop was to be seen on her entire walk. At this time of day they would be shaking down the madams and collecting the tipple tax she laughed.

Quickly Mallory was ushered into the enormous office of Chris Llanfair. Mallory knew Llanfair from the robbery of the Monforte Crown and Jewels several months ago. Why they had hired her to uncover the perps Mallory could not guess. The had known that the Order was behind the heist all along. But then you never could explain what banks were up to.

The office was huge and long. Large windows faced the Capitol Building in the distance. The room was paneled in dark woods and some gold gilding on the wainscoting. Portraits of really old and undoubtedly long dead men stood staring blankly into the dimly lit room.

Llanfair and another man were at one end of the room. Llanfair was seated behind his ormolu desk. Really old thought Mallory. Empire style, probably Napoleon one, worth a small fortune. But what did these guys know about money. They just printed the stuff.

As Mallory approached she studied the little man next to Llanfair. He was short with graying hair and a curved back. Scoliosis thought Mallory. He could not fully stand up straight and his hands were badly stained. Black stains and bits of color were spattered on his worn shoes. He had a gnome like quality. His nails were bitten to the quick and his two of his fingers badly calloused. An engraver and printer realized Mallory. Probably that Durr guy whose name was listed on the slate in the lobby as head of engraving and printing. Albrecht Intaglio Durr Head Engraver and Artificer of the Reserve Bank the sign had read.

Llanfair and Durr said nothing as Mallory entered. Llanfair did not rise as Mallory approached the desk which was swept clean of all papers and documents. Only a pen set and an ashtray were visible on the desk. Durr held a manila envelope in one hand without address or stamps.

Mallory stopped a foot from the desk and nodded toward Llanfair. Mallory slid the unopened heavy package onto Llanfair’s desk.

“Glad you could come Mallory, very glad,” said Llanfair not even looking at the package.

Mallory knew better. The look on both their faces told her that they were not happy to see her at all. But they were desperate for something and that was why she was here she realized. Another 250 and hour job she thought.

Mallory said nothing. You get more information that way she knew.

“Take a look at these,” Llanfair said motioning to Durr.

Durr reached into the manila envelope and pulled out four 100 linden notes. He laid them out carefully upon the desk facing Mallory. They were crisp and new and in the new more colorful design that was supposed to deter counterfeiting. Mallory almost laughed at the thought, but she remained stone cold like a cipher in a snow storm.

Mallory glanced at the notes, and then picked them up as a group. She felt the paper with her thin index finger. Her ‘Malaga Wine’ red tipped finger nails gently scratched the paper and the raised printing. She ran her thumb over the complex hologram, and then noticed that all four had identical serial numbers. Again she almost broke her stone cold demeanor.

She reached into her purse and pulled out her match book. She had decided to test Llanfair and Durr. She struck the match and then lit one note on fire. Mallory studied their faces as she placed the burning note into the ashtray. The she lit one after another and watched carefully as they burned.

Around the ormolu desk a thin haze of smoke formed and Mallory reached into her purse, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She noticed that at this point both Llanfair and Durr reacted with a small hidden wince. She pulled in a deep draw and then exhaled in Llanfair’s direction.

“Their fake,” Mallory said.