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.
“This is Jill Montgomery down in sunny Fort Myers, Florida, where the temperature is a fabulous seventy-eight degrees, and the faithful of Red Sox Nation have begun their annual migration to the spring training home of their beloved team. Let’s talk to one of them right now…” She motioned for a bald man in a Josh Beckett jersey. “ Sir, where are you from?”
“Red Sox going all the way! Wooooooooo!”
“And where are you from?”
“Yankees suck!”
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.”
“… But a down note this morning as emergency personnel hospitalized an eighty-one-year-old fan from Quincy bludgeoned in a local economy motel. Under arrest are two unemployed construction workers who were on a weeklong crack binge in the next room… Now, back to the game!”
“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.”
“… Varitek doubles to the right, bringing home Pedroia!…”
“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.”
“… Youkilis takes strike two, looking not happy with the call…”
“But doesn’t that take a lot of time?”
“Back in the day, it took a hell of a lot of time,” said Patrick. “We actually had to drive to the sites, stand on ladders and count manually with binoculars.”
“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.”
“… Jim, there’s some kind of disturbance in the right-field stands over a foul ball. Let’s see that on slow-motion replay… Holy cow!…”
The water supervisor looked up at the TV. “Is that guy out of his fucking mind?”
“And here come the security guards,” said Patrick.
“… We’ll take a short break in the seventh, Sox up five to three…”
The TVs switched to a local news update. “… Authorities are still seeking the public’s help in the disappearance of an eighteen-year-old Boston freshman last seen Saturday night leaving her Cambridge dorm…”
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.”
“… Meanwhile, city officials are responding at this hour to a major water line break near the Charles…”
“Shit.” Carl jumped up and grabbed his coat. “You didn’t see me.”
Chapter Three
FORT MYERS
A ’73 Challenger sped away from City of Palms Park and made a hard left. Three baseballs rolled across the dashboard.
“What an excellent game!” said Serge.
Coleman unscrewed his flask. “What was the score?”
“Three.”
“I thought scores had two numbers, one for each team.”
“I don’t keep track of teams, just foul balls. My best game yet! And that was only seven innings. Imagine if I was allowed to stay for the rest, let alone back end of the doubleheader.”
“Those security guards were really mad.”
“Because of envy.”
“What about?”
“First, my foul ball collection. Second, I can outrun security. They really hate that. But it’s their own fault, not willing to leap from heights.”
“Maybe it was that last ball you got, diving over four rows into those people. It was raining popcorn.”
“It’s a baseball game. That’s what separates the sport from all others and makes it my favorite!”
“How so?”
“The entire stadium’s in play. Anyone who sits in the stands knows and assumes the risk: One second you’re munching a hot dog and hearing the magnificent crack of a Louisville Slugger, the next you’re hit with a frozen-rope line drive. Or me diving to catch it. Either way, you end up on a stretcher, covered in mustard. No better way to spend an afternoon.”