Optional Retirement Plan

Chapter 1

1

So, this is how it started. I knew something was up when Tony Two-point-oh called me in. I mean, I never see him in person anymore. Haven’t for years.

He left me waiting out front with his latest receptionist. You know the one. She wears her skirts high and her shirts low. She looks like an hourglass with legs. She flirts with her eyes just to give you something else to look at now and then.

Tony knows what he’s doing.

She’s part of a carefully orchestrated impression he likes to make on those Tony Taulke summons to see him. You’ve been there, right? Or maybe you haven’t. No offense, but I expect you’ve never had a one-on-one with Tony. Just nod if you—no? Right, then.

Well, you walk off the vator onto this red marble floor imported from Mars. What does that tell you? The logo for the Syndicate Corporation is carved right into it in diamond and platinum brought up from Earth. I bet he spent more SCDs on the floor than you and I’ve made all our lives. And we’re well paid for our services. That floor tells you all you need to know, right?

When you sit, there’s the bust of Napoleon on the receptionist’s desk looking down on you. Spanning the wall behind her, there’s the hand-painted recreation of a Michelangelo fresco—the one where God is giving the finger of life to Adam. Sitting on the couch waiting for Tony, you can’t help but stare at it. Even if you miss Nappy’s condescending gaze.

Oh, yeah, and if none of that impresses you, there’s the life-sized, petrified, bona fide T-Rex head. I’m not kidding. It’s under glass, off in its own corner that’s larger than the rest of the lobby combined. The actual skull of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Tony has issues.

Now, add Marakesh’s seductive smile and inviting cleavage to the mix. That’s the receptionist’s name, by the way. Everyone calls her Kesh. Everyone but me. I’m old fashioned. I call her Mary. It helps keep my thoughts on the purer side. That’s the theory, anyway.

All that adds up to feeling a little overwhelmed and a lot underready for a meeting with Tony Two-point-oh. He leaves people out there a good fifteen to twenty minutes past their appointment time, with nothing to look at but intimidation. It makes them edgy. It gives him the edge.

Tony has issues. But he knows what he’s doing.

Not so long ago, I might’ve even been in Mary’s chair. Those were the days when I was Tony’s go-to guy. Long time ago. Who Tony puts at the desk depends on the visitor and the reason for the visit. When something less pretty and more deadly was needed, I’d be called in.

When someone stepped off the vator who’d never been there before, I’d enjoy seeing their reaction. Watching Tony’s power register on the summonee’s face.

First, the curiosity at the clashing décor and the floor that could buy most family lines a few times over. After a few minutes, that’d give way to an appreciation for the power of the man that could afford it all. Then the summonee starts to fidget and become more and more uncomfortable waiting on the couch. It’s like a visit to the principal’s office, if the principal is late to the meeting and likely to be armed. By the time Tony’s door opens, they’re glad to see him just to end the waiting and get out of that damned lobby.

That feeling of relief usually doesn’t last long.

It’s all theater, you know. That’s what half of managing people is, if you do it right. Handling them into doing what you want them to. Stage direction. The pregnant pause in the conversation. The wry smile and cold stare. As they say, it’s not in the writing—it’s in the directing.

That day it was me on the couch. And worse, I knew exactly what Tony was doing. I just explained it to you.

It’s not the T-Rex that’s getting on my nerves. It’s not knowing why I’m sitting there. I have no idea why Tony’s called me in. All I got was the command performance notification from Mary. But it’s not my birthday, I can tell you that.

I check the chrono on the wall. I’ve been sitting there exactly sixteen minutes. We’re in the sweet spot. Or the sweat spot, as Tony used to call it. As I wait, I wonder if he still calls it that. How would I know? I haven’t seen him in years.

“Any idea what this is about?”

Mary makes a show of being busy, as she has since I stepped off the vator. She’d greeted me, but a little coldly, now that I think about it. She pulls up something onscreen and looks closely at it, completing some task before glancing my way. Then those eyes flutter at me and even seem happy they’re doing it.

Stagecraft.

“No idea, Mr. Fischer. He just told me to have you come in.” She smiles. Like having me there has made the burden of walking on Martian red marble somehow more bearable.

Wait … Mr. Fischer? Since when are we on a last-name basis?

“If it’s about the Qinlao job, I already reported to the CIO. Done, untraceable. The change in operatives—”

“He didn’t confide in me, I’m afraid. As I said.”

Flutter-flutter. Smile, with less enjoyment as an ingredient this time. Cold. I’m busy. Please wait till your number’s called.

Mary startles, as if she’s just received an electric shock. She taps the skin just behind her right ear. That’s where she opted to have her SCI installed, I guess. Saved by the tingle.

“SynCorp, Mr. Taulke’s office.” She pauses, her eyes roaming the wall behind me, scanning everywhere but my face. Interesting. Hadn’t noticed that before. When she thinks, Mary doesn’t actually look you in the eye. Noted.

That’s when I realize I’ve slipped into tactical mode. Been that way since before I sat down in front of God and Napoleon and King T. I’ve been making mental notes of my surroundings, Mary’s behavior, and paths of escape. But I know if Tony Two-point-oh wants me dead, there is no escape. Then again, if he wanted me dead, I’d already be cooling to room temperature somewhere else. Somewhere without imported marble floors.

Knowing I’m hyperaware makes me antsy. I focus on God touching the tip of Adam’s finger. The Lord looks slightly amused to me. Realizing I hadn’t been aware before of being hyperaware spooks me. I used to be more self-aware than that. Now I’m really nervous.

I never get nervous. Nervous isn’t in my job description.

“Sure, send him in,” Mary says, flitting a knowing look my way.

Uh-oh.

The vator opens and out steps Richard Strunk, Tony’s current right-hand man. There’s no love lost there for me. As I got older, Tony decided he wanted a younger, faster, more-energetic enforcer watching his ass for him. That’s when I learned that bodyguards are like women—as they get older and less confident, men always want a younger one. So I was packed off to contract work. Not that I’m complaining. I eat regular.

Strunk throws me a look as he passes. It’s sort of an inversion of Mary’s expression. Where hers was sweet and distant, his is wry and intimate. Like he can’t wait to tell me the punchline to a joke I’ve already heard the set-up for. But it’s a joke I’m not in on, at least not yet. I swear—he makes an effort not to wink.

Mary presses a button and Tony’s door disappears into the wall. Strunk passes through. A hiss and Tony’s hermetically sealed in again, safe from the common folk. What’s happening here?

I swing back to Mary, looking for an ally.

But she’s busy again. Very busy.

Tingle-tingle.

“Yes, Mr. Taulke,” says Mary. Turning her eyes to me again, she says, “He’ll see you now.”

Flutter-flutter.

“Eugene! Come in, my old friend.”

Tony’s gestures are broad. His tone is amicable, nostalgic. He even stands up behind his desk to receive me, arms spread wide.

I walk in and see the two chairs in front of Tony’s desk as always, but one of them is occupied. I can’t see who it is from my angle. Strunk stands off to the side, back against the wall, his duty station as Tony’s enforcer. His field of view takes in the entire office. He’s got that same I-know-something-you-don’t smirk on his mug. His stance is casual, but his arms are crossed. An old trick for keeping your hands close to your artillery.

As I approach Tony, the head in the chair turns my way. It’s Tony Three-point-one, the heir apparent. If you’re wondering about his designation, Tony and Mrs. Tony had another one in the oven before him who never delivered. That was more than twenty years ago. The whole house was like a black blanket for a week after she miscarried. Tony got over it quickly. Mrs. Tony took longer.

Junior seems nervous. But then, that kid always seemed nervous. He darts his eyes at Strunk and I get the distinct impression Junior is sizing up the odds of getting caught in the crossfire should Strunk pull his piece.

If I wasn’t nervous before....

I keep the eyes in the back of my head focused on Strunk’s s**t-eating grin as I embrace Papa Tony.

“How are things?” he asks. I can tell the question is mainly meant to make two men hugging feel comfortable.

“Tolerable,” I say. It’s an old joke, a response that comes automatically, without me thinking about it.

“Hey, Stacks, how’s life in the killing business?” Tony would ask me after I’d done a job for him back in the day. “Tolerable,” I’d always answer. Seems like a lifetime ago, back when we didn’t have to invent conversation.

Tony laughs and puts me at arm’s length. “Same old Eugene,” he says. More auto-talk. I give him the requisite smile in return, but I feel all three sets of eyes on me. As if they’re afraid of what I might do.

“Hey, uh—shouldn’t we pat him down?”

Junior’s definitely nervous. Papa casts a sour eye on him.

“Manners, Tony.” He’s careful never to call Three-point-one “Junior” in public. Detracts from the professional demeanor of the family faction. Grandpapa Tony was the same way about Two-point-oh. His preference for a public face reminds me again of the distancing I’ve felt since I walked off the vator into the lobby.

“Have a seat, Eugene.” Papa Tony gestures at the empty chair next to Junior, who noticeably shifts his chair a little to the left. Seriously, kid, I showered. Just last Tuesday.

I feel Strunk just behind me, then. He pauses before proceeding.

Papa Tony shrugs, like it’s not something he really wants to do. “Since you’re there.” He gestures to Strunk.

I’m so off-balance at the sudden application of procedure, I just lift my arms mechanically. Strunk’s paws press my clothes for me. He pulls out my standard-issue SynCorp piece, the stunner. He pulls the spring-loaded blade I keep strapped to my right wrist. He even finds the old .38 revolver I have holstered inside my left ankle. Good for Strunk. He’s smarter than he looks. More thorough, too. These days, not many carry like I do. They all rely on modern tech to accomplish murder.

“Put them there,” Tony says, pointing at the desktop in front of my chair. No doubt, he considers putting my own weapons on the desk right in front of me, within arm’s reach, a kind of apology for the frisking. To make me feel more at ease.

It doesn’t work.

Tony sits back down. His chair is elevated six inches off the floor, though you can’t see that from my side of the desk. It makes it so he’s always looking down on the summonee. Kind of like Napoleon.

More theater.

When I was still standing in Strunk’s shoes, I appreciated the strategy. Now, as I sat there wondering if I’d already lost a battle I hadn’t even fought yet, I began to sympathize with past adversaries.

There I go again. Thinking of the situation like a fight. But it sure felt like a bell was about to ring.

“What’s all this about, Tony? If it’s about Maya Qinlao—”

“It’s Mr. Taulke,” says Strunk from behind. He’s leaning against the wall again. Enjoying the spectacle. Just like I used to.

“I said manners before and I meant it.” Tony’s voice is flat, his eyes pinning Strunk to his wall. The amiable embrace is gone from his voice, now. He just seems somber. Maybe he really doesn’t want to do this. Whatever this is. “In fact, you know what, Richard? Why don’t you wait out in the lobby.”

I don’t hear movement behind me. I can tell d**k doesn’t want to move. He’s been looking forward to that punch line. If I were him, my eyes would be fixed on the weapons arrayed on the desk. My weapons. I’d be estimating the threat the man in the chair posed to my employer.

“Boss, you pulled me in for this, and I think it’s a good idea for me to stay. Maybe I should—”

“You don’t get paid to think. You get paid to do. Specifically, what I tell you.” Tony stares at Strunk with the Little Emperor’s iron eyes.

“Wait outside,” says Junior. I can tell by his voice he’s trying on his father’s suit. Stretching his arms a bit. Planning for the future.

Their discussion has settled me down some. The ranks aren’t tight, I see. There’s a little dissension. I can feel my balls again.

“All right, Boss, if you think that’s best.” He’s plainly talking to Papa Tony, not Junior.

“Don’t worry,” I say from a half-turned head. I don’t give Strunk the honor of looking him in the eye. “I’ll be good. Dick.”

The wall breathes twice and now we’re three.