Yuk Tang has no idea what to say. He wishes the nurses would file in laughing, having put this drug salesman up to a practical joke. He says, “I’m sorry, sir, you have me a little confused.”
Mr. Estrada’s face goes rigid. Then his mouth broadens into a smile and he gives out a short bark of a laugh. “Business is booming, I see,” he says and Yuk Tang laughs with him, relieved but just as confused.
Mr. Estrada folds his hands on the table and says softly, “Obviously we have a few missed connections here. I’m very sorry. My party is interested specifically in the Belgrano volume.”
“Belgrano,” Yuk Tang says.
“Yes. The Belgrano volume,” Mr. Estrada says. “Though it has been mentioned, and I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it has been mentioned that if things work out suitably here, there could be a future commission arrangement for yourself and Mr. Darcey.”
Darcey’s name hits him like a slap. He says, “I think you’ve confused me with someone else.” He’s on the verge of being giddy with fear.
Mr. Estrada doesn’t react immediately. Then he stands, nods, and whispers, “I understand.” He takes a business card from his suitcoat pocket and slides it across the table toward Yuk Tang. He turns precisely and moves out of the lounge.
Yuk Tang takes the card. It’s white and blank. He flips it over. Hand-printed in tiny block letters, it reads: Belgrano 552-7263.
With persistence and careful planning, Darcey has used the past month to turn his day job into an intricate and compulsive game. He found this necessary because of the boredom factor inherent in the constant five-minute, twenty-mile-an-hour van runs between the various labs of the Foundation. There were start-up expenses right off the bat to get the game under way — a Discman and a huge assortment of CDs (mostly 1950s collections from the discount bins), some stationery supplies, and, though it really wasn’t necessary, a thick rock ’n’ roll encyclopedia.
Darcey makes thirty sweeps a day around the Foundation’s grounds. On the last sweep of his day, he often says, “Last call for the ovens,” and lets the doctors wonder. The doctors could easily walk the short route between the labs. The grounds are beautiful and there are paths lined by flowerbeds. But the shuttle van supposedly saves precious time and there was money allotted for it. Darcey’s not about to complain. He loves the job. He’s come to rely on the monotony. The monotony gave birth to his game and the game has come into its own. It has started to grow and expand and take advantage of a number of possibilities.
The game originally used a basic point system and three testing categories. Category One involved beginning and ending the short drive at five-minute intervals exactly, points being deducted for seconds off, either fast or slow. Category Two involved knowing the exact wording of all the lyrics on any given CD, picked at random from a paper bag. Darcey started with a Sam Cooke disc and got hooked, so he stayed with the artist for two weeks and called it pre-season exhibition. Category Three — Darcey’s personal favorite — involved how many times in a day he could speed off, just as a passenger was about to catch the shuttle. Last month he began awarding himself bonus points for random and spur-of-the-moment achievements. And lately, things have gotten completely out of hand. There are now subcategories and half-points, challenges that involve the Ford’s tire pressure and the number of miles driven per gallon of gas. The scoring has gotten algebraic. Days of the week and times of the day have new and complex meanings. Darcey has begun keeping the long and complicated scores and results and ratings in a fat, spiral notebook. At the end of his shift, he leaves it in the van under the driver’s seat.
Today, after he clears out everyone on the last stop at the ovens and spends a few minutes jotting down the scores from his last round, he pops Sam Cooke into the player and cranks the volume. He sings along to “Chain Gang” at the top of his lungs on the drive to the Foundation’s garage. He parks before the song is over and so leaves the motor idling while he and Sam Cooke finish out the number. Then he turns off the key and as he reaches around to lock the sliding back door, a man in the far back seat says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Darcey.”
Darcey’s arm smashes into the steering wheel and the horn sounds.
“Jesus Christ,” he yells.
The man is apologetic. He holds an arm out before him and says, “I’m sorry, I...,” but Darcey again says, “Jesus Christ.”
They sit in silence for a second and Darcey catches his breath and finally lifts his head and says, “You stupid bastard, you nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.”
The man tries, “Again, I’m sorry,” his voice strange and calming.
Darcey’s angry and embarrassed. He says, “What the hell are you doing in here? I thought I dropped everyone at the ovens.”
“The ovens?” the man asks.
Darcey wipes at his face and begins to settle himself.
“Goddamn,” he says. “You almost took me out.”
They look at each other over the distance of the van. The man is dressed for rain in a heavy trench coat. It’s fully buttoned and he has the collar turned up. Darcey suddenly thinks that the guy might have fallen asleep. He decides to sit, look menacing, and wait for an explanation.
“I apologize for startling you,” the man says. He accents some of his words in the wrong places. “I thought it was in our mutual interest to speak alone. I had thought you might be expecting me. I’m Mr. Rochelle.”
Darcey stays quiet, looks out into the garage, and tries to think. Finally he says, “Yeah, well, I’m sorry I jumped. I was listening to the music. You spooked me.” He pauses and squints at Mr. Rochelle. “So, I’m locking up now.”
Rochelle gives no indication that he intends to leave the van. It’s as if he’s made it his home and he won’t be evicted. He says, “I have people who are extremely interested in a recent acquisition of yours.” He doesn’t appear angry, just intent.
Darcey thinks about jumping out of the van, but instead he says, “I’m afraid I don’t understand you. Do you want me to drive you back to the labs? Did you fall asleep?”
Mr. Rochelle looks confused. He glances down at his shoes and then back up at Darcey and says, “Mr. Darcey, are we not alone? Is there a problem?”
Darcey can’t help getting edgy. He says, “I think you’ve got the problem, friend. We don’t know each other.”
Mr. Rochelle breaks in with an easy “Of course not.”
Darcey says, “Well, I’ve got to go. You want to spend the night in the van, that’s fine with me.” He pulls up on the door handle. The ceiling light snaps on.
Mr. Rochelle doesn’t flinch. He stares at Darcey for a minute and then reaches into a coat pocket and removes something. His hands are so large they cover the entire object. Darcey feels a little nauseated. Mr. Rochelle looks into his hand at a note card or picture, then replaces it. He sighs and smiles and says, “Mr. Darcey, this is not professional behavior on your part. Please sit.”
Darcey closes the van door.
“Is this a problem with money, Mr. Darcey?” Mr. Rochelle asks. “You should know better than that. My people are not interested in bargains. They are not looking for a...” His eyes turn to the side as if he’ll spot the word he’s searching for out the window. They turn back on Darcey and he says, carefully, “flea market.”
He smiles, pleased with himself. “I’m sure you are aware of the extent to which they will go,” he says. “Within reason, of course.”