“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.”
“
The water supervisor looked up at the TV. “Is that guy out of his fucking mind?”
“And here come the security guards,” said Patrick.
“
The TVs switched to a local news update. “
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.”
“
“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
“Maybe it was that last ball you got, diving over four rows into those people. It was raining popcorn.”
“It’s a
“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.”
The Challenger slowed and circled a budget motel in the heart of downtown, walking-distance from the stadium. Litter, vacancy, lengths of fallen-down roof gutters stacked behind overgrown shrubs, rusty fence surrounding a drained swimming pool with a busted TV at the bottom. An unhinged sign dangled sideways by the office, saying they spoke French.
“We staying here?” asked Coleman.
“No.” Serge leaned over the steering wheel. “Another of my spring traditions.”
“What’s that?”
“Tourist protection. We’ve been getting a bad rap lately, because we deserve it. And I mean to fix that. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone wearing a Red Sox cap.”
“Why?”
“Because fans come down here for spring training, see magnificent tropical surroundings and think they can stay in just any ol’ budget motel. They don’t realize that wearing those baseball caps at certain accommodations is like stumbling through Central American guerilla strongholds with ‘Kidnap me’ signs on their backs.”
“But we stay at these kinds of motels.”
“Right,” said Serge. “We’re part of the problem.”
“I forgot about that.”
Serge rounded the back of the motel. “Oh my God! Shit’s on!”
BOSTON
The fifth-floor corner office had views of both the Hancock and the Prudential. Two computers running. Plus a small personal TV, which was against the rules.
Patrick McKenna had the biggest accounts. He decided to put in a couple hours on his day off, studying satellite photos from the Midwest. As the computer panned an image, his firm’s proprietary optical-recognition software tabulated parking lot occupancy and entered data on a spreadsheet. Large numbers for a Wednesday afternoon. Patrick closed the image and opened another, this one darker: Thursday, sunset. Numbers rang up again like a telethon tote board.
First impressions of Patrick McKenna were uniform: not impressed. Mainly it was his five-foot-six stature, but it was more. People told him he looked like Michael J. Fox with darker hair. Patrick had just turned forty-two, maintained his weight and was one of the few people at the company who placed his Rs in the correct parts of words. He disliked neckties, loud personalities and nonessential conversation. In fact, Patrick would have kept to himself entirely, except he was driven to support his family. He consciously forced himself to look others in the eye. He was a loner disguised as a people person.
As Patrick moved his mouse over the next satellite image, he wasn’t watching the computer. Because the Florida Marlins had the bases loaded on his personal TV.
A knock on the door.
Patrick hit the television’s remote. The channel changed to the second game of a Red Sox doubleheader.
His boss came in. He looked at the small TV, then Patrick. “Watching the Sox on company time?”
Patrick grinned sheepishly.
