Wackermann?”
“What’s a Peter Wackermann supposed to look like, anyhow?”
“Wears glasses. Was a fat kid who got beat up a lot. Probably Jewish. A chronic masturbator for sure, but he feels guilty about it. Not one of these things applies to me.”
Scowling, Boyd began stabbing a finger at the radio presets; sombrero music, that’s all he could find all of a sudden. A cosmic joke had just been played, he was sure of it. It made him think of something Allison had once told him, about this playwright who scripted people’s lives as comedies, as tragedies. He’d not quite grasped the concept then, had needed more time for it to sink in; thought he finally understood now.
“Peter Wackermann … this is really starting to feel hinky. Those beaners, they’re having me off, I know they are! Back me up on this, Derek, I’m turning this car around and making them give me a real name.”
Derek reached over to seize the steering wheel with one giant monkey’s paw.
“No. No, you’re not. We’re gonna go get you your new driver’s license now, and you’ll sit there marveling at what a wonderful Caucasian name Peter Wackermann is.” When Boyd reluctantly nodded, Derek released the wheel. “You go back there, assuming your mouth doesn’t get you killed, you know what’ll happen? They’ll send you on your way, and from then on you’ll be spending the rest of your life trying to explain to people why Pop named you Juan Valdez.”
He had a point. Huge ugly head like that, and Derek could score points on a wide variety of subjects.
“Besides, I’ll tell you what Peter Wackermann is like,” Derek went on. “Peter Wackermann’s a guy who’s got over seven hundred thousand dollars coming to him, and he’s got a very patient big brother who’s only requesting a token thousand-dollar finder’s fee for connecting him with the guy who’ll help him get his hands on it. Now, does Peter Wackermann sound like such a bad guy to be?”
Boyd smiled. He was centered again, calm, seeing the big picture. “Okay, now who’s this guy you’re taking me to tomorrow?”
“His name’s Wayne Chang. Except people call him Wang Chung. You know … that band? Everybody have fun tonight…?”
“Everybody Wang Chung tonight, yeah! I love that song.”
“Guy’s a top-shelf hacker. Just sits in front of his computer day and night, exploring, tinkering, covering his tracks. What he’s really living for is the day some neural interface system comes along so he can jack directly into his brain, never have to leave the chair again. Just fall right into the whole Internet.”
“Sounds like the model of mental health. How much does he want for doing this job?”
“A five percent commission on the gross.”
“ Five percent? That’s over thirty-six thousand dollars!” Boyd moaned, profit margins being cannibalized before his eyes. “I thought he’d just charge a flat fee, a few grand at most. It’s only one afternoon’s work.”
Derek was laughing again. “Listen, you’re just lucky he’s not your agent. Then he’d be skimming ten to fifteen off the top.”
Boyd relented. Sacrificing five percent of something was better than retaining a full hundred of nothing. A complicated business was embezzlement in this befuddling age of computers and international banking. Gone were the simpler days of the classic after-hours raid on the boss’s safe, then heading for the border.
“Speaking of skimming,” said Derek, “you’ve got to tell me how you pulled this thing off. I’m dying to know.”
“Well, to understand that,” Boyd began, “you have to first understand that the beauty of the casino business is that nobody knows what the exact cash flow at a table is at any given time. I start my shift with an empty drop box and a rackful of chips, and this is the simplest it ever gets, because of the different kinds of exchange mediums we deal with. And how fast it all changes. I get cash whenever somebody buys
“What’s a Peter Wackermann supposed to look like, anyhow?”
“Wears glasses. Was a fat kid who got beat up a lot. Probably Jewish. A chronic masturbator for sure, but he feels guilty about it. Not one of these things applies to me.”
Scowling, Boyd began stabbing a finger at the radio presets; sombrero music, that’s all he could find all of a sudden. A cosmic joke had just been played, he was sure of it. It made him think of something Allison had once told him, about this playwright who scripted people’s lives as comedies, as tragedies. He’d not quite grasped the concept then, had needed more time for it to sink in; thought he finally understood now.
“Peter Wackermann … this is really starting to feel hinky. Those beaners, they’re having me off, I know they are! Back me up on this, Derek, I’m turning this car around and making them give me a real name.”
Derek reached over to seize the steering wheel with one giant monkey’s paw.
“No. No, you’re not. We’re gonna go get you your new driver’s license now, and you’ll sit there marveling at what a wonderful Caucasian name Peter Wackermann is.” When Boyd reluctantly nodded, Derek released the wheel. “You go back there, assuming your mouth doesn’t get you killed, you know what’ll happen? They’ll send you on your way, and from then on you’ll be spending the rest of your life trying to explain to people why Pop named you Juan Valdez.”
He had a point. Huge ugly head like that, and Derek could score points on a wide variety of subjects.
“Besides, I’ll tell you what Peter Wackermann is like,” Derek went on. “Peter Wackermann’s a guy who’s got over seven hundred thousand dollars coming to him, and he’s got a very patient big brother who’s only requesting a token thousand-dollar finder’s fee for connecting him with the guy who’ll help him get his hands on it. Now, does Peter Wackermann sound like such a bad guy to be?”
Boyd smiled. He was centered again, calm, seeing the big picture. “Okay, now who’s this guy you’re taking me to tomorrow?”
“His name’s Wayne Chang. Except people call him Wang Chung. You know … that band? Everybody have fun tonight…?”
“Everybody Wang Chung tonight, yeah! I love that song.”
“Guy’s a top-shelf hacker. Just sits in front of his computer day and night, exploring, tinkering, covering his tracks. What he’s really living for is the day some neural interface system comes along so he can jack directly into his brain, never have to leave the chair again. Just fall right into the whole Internet.”
“Sounds like the model of mental health. How much does he want for doing this job?”
“A five percent commission on the gross.”
“ Five percent? That’s over thirty-six thousand dollars!” Boyd moaned, profit margins being cannibalized before his eyes. “I thought he’d just charge a flat fee, a few grand at most. It’s only one afternoon’s work.”
Derek was laughing again. “Listen, you’re just lucky he’s not your agent. Then he’d be skimming ten to fifteen off the top.”
Boyd relented. Sacrificing five percent of something was better than retaining a full hundred of nothing. A complicated business was embezzlement in this befuddling age of computers and international banking. Gone were the simpler days of the classic after-hours raid on the boss’s safe, then heading for the border.
“Speaking of skimming,” said Derek, “you’ve got to tell me how you pulled this thing off. I’m dying to know.”
“Well, to understand that,” Boyd began, “you have to first understand that the beauty of the casino business is that nobody knows what the exact cash flow at a table is at any given time. I start my shift with an empty drop box and a rackful of chips, and this is the simplest it ever gets, because of the different kinds of exchange mediums we deal with. And how fast it all changes. I get cash whenever somebody buys
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