Granted, sometimes there were problems. There was the time Penultimate won a large contract to build a prisoner-detention facility in downtown Miami. The facility was supposed to feature a state-of-the-art electronic security-door system, and the taxpayers certainly paid for a state-of-the-art security-door system. But what actually got installed was a semi-random collection of hardware that included, as a central element, garage-door openers purchased on sale at Home Depot for $99.97 apiece. The result was that, during a bad lightning storm shortly after the facility went into service, a number of key doors simply opened themselves, leaving it up to the prisoners to decide, on the honor system, whether they wished to remain in jail.
As it happened, 132 prisoners, out of a possible 137, decided that they did not wish to remain in jail. It was a huge story: a horde of criminals, some of them murderers, running loose on the streets of downtown Miami, pursued by a frantic posse of police and media. The highlight came when the capture of an escaped prisoner was shown live, nationally, on the NEC Nightly News, and a reporter shouted to the prisoner, as he was being hustled into a police cruiser, 'Who masterminded the escape?'
'Ain't nobody mastermind shit' the prisoner shouted back. 'The mufuh doors opened.'
Even by Miami standards, this was considered a major screwup. Under intense pressure from the media, Penultimate explained, through its dense firewall of high-priced attorneys, that all the blame belonged to ... subcontractors. The politicians, who did not want Penultimate to get into trouble, inasmuch as almost all of them had received money from the company, pounced on this explanation like wild dogs on a pork chop: Yes! That was it! Subcontractors were responsible!
Unfortunately for the cause of justice, most of the key subcontractors involved either fled the country or died, generally in boating accidents. Eventually, the investigation lost steam, and the issue degenerated into a vast steaming bog of lawsuits and counter-lawsuits that would not be settled within the current geological era. Everybody lost interest, and Penultimate went back to winning contracts.
One of these was for a six-story downtown parking garage that wound up costing, what with one thing and another, just under four times the original contract figure. Each price increase was approved with virtually no discussion by key political leaders, who were invited to make speeches at the garage dedication ceremony, which fortunately was held outside the structure, which is why only two people were injured when the entire central portion of the structure collapsed during the opening prayer.
Once again there was outrage; once again there were statements and hearings; once again the finger of blame ultimately wound up being pointed at—it is so hard to get good help—those darned subcontractors. Who of course by that point were disappearing faster than weekend houseguests in an Agatha Christie story. And Penultimate continued to prosper and grow and benefit from its reputation as a company that only a fool would mess with.
As it happened, Arthur Herk, in addition to being an abusive alcoholic, was a fool. To pay off a gambling debt, he had embezzled $55,000 from Penultimate. Unbeknownst to him, his bosses, experts in the field of dishonesty and far smarter than Arthur, had discovered the theft almost immediately. They viewed embezzlement as a fairly serious violation of corporate policy, punishable by death.
And so Penultimate had hired two specialized subcontractors, Henry and Leonard, the men waiting in the humid darkness outside the sliding-glass door to the Herk family room. In whispered voices, they were discussing scheduling.
'We shoot him now,' Leonard was saying, 'we make the eleven-forty flight to Newark.'
'I can't shoot him now,' Henry said. 'He's too close to the women.' Henry was the man with the rifle; Leonard's main jobs were to drive and keep Henry company.
'You don't shoot him soon,' Leonard said, 'I'm dead, from these fucking mosquitoes.' He slapped one on his wrist, leaving a quarter-sized blot of blood and bug parts. 'Look at this thing,' he said. 'He's the size of that fucking dog.'
'She,' said Henry, continuing to watch the Herk family through the window.
'She?' asked Leonard. 'She what?'
'The mosquito,' said Henry. 'It's a she.'
Leonard looked closely at the blot on his wrist, then back at Henry. 'How fiiefuck can you tell that?' he asked.
'This show on the Discovery Channel,' explained Henry. 'They said only the female mosquito sucks your blood.'
Leonard looked at the blot again. He said, 'Bitch.'
'What they didn't explain,' said Henry, 'is what do the male mosquitoes eat?'
'What, are you worried about them?'
'No, I'm not worried about them. I'm just ... '
'You want I should go get a fucking pizza for them, set it out here in the jungle so they don't starve?'
'I'm just saying, what do they eat? If they don't suck blood? Is all I'm saying.'
'Maybe they suck each other,' said Leonard.
Henry had to smile at that, which only encouraged Leonard.
'Oh, Bruth!' Leonard said in a lisping mosquito whisper. 'YouhaveaBIGthtinger!'
Henry was quietly quaking with laughter now; his rifle barrel vibrated in the gloom.
Inside the family room, Arthur Herk was methodically, relentlessly changing channels. He was doing this partly because the instinct to change channels is embedded deep in the male genetic code, and partly because he knew his wife and stepdaughter hated it. For a few minutes, Anna and Jenny stared at the flashing jumble of images, expressionless, not wanting to give Herk any satisfaction. Finally, Jenny sighed and stood. Addressing Anna, she said, 'I'm gonna go to my room, where it's not so, I don't know ... stupid. Good night, Mom.'
Herk kept changing channels.
Anna said, 'I think I'll let Roger in and go to bed, too.'
Herk stopped changing channels and looked at her. She recognized the look. She hoped he'd pass out in the family room tonight. She hoped he would not make it to the bedroom. She rose from the sofa.
