Two words:
“You’re nowhere.”
Chapter 6
HOW IS this happening? It’s way beyond me, and it’s making my head spin.
I’m sitting in a huge, climate-controlled hangar just a few miles away, seeing this whole scene play out almost as if I were inside the pickup. I’m watching it all on a sports bar–size screen, and every word is crystal clear.
“Boost the resolution a little,” says Daisy to one of her techs. She’s standing at a console under the big screen—totally on her game, and totally ignoring me.
I can see that Bron is anxious—and really sweaty. I feel kind of guilty sitting here nibbling M&M’s. But not really. He’s the one who wanted a change, right? So I decided to swing for the fences. And true to her word, Daisy is making it happen.
I wrote the most remote location I could think of, and there it is—for real—right before my eyes.
I admit, the three hours I spent in the back of the cargo plane last night were a little bumpy. Not exactly first-class accommodations. But everything got here in one piece. Me. Daisy. A bunch of hi-tech whiz kids. And a pile of complicated electronic stuff—plus my trusty Selectric, safe and sound.
From the outside, the hangar looks like it has gone through a nuclear bomb test. But inside, I have to say, Daisy and her minions have done it up nice. Blond wood tables, glass desks, slick workstations. Even a few sofas and some semi-comfortable sleeping cubicles. Our own little world in the middle of the desert.
“Got everything you need, sir?” asks one of the techies.
“I could use a beer.”
“It’s 10:00 a.m.,” says Daisy from a few yards away. Point taken.
She must have bought out eBay’s backlog of Selectric typewriter ribbon, because I’ve got about twenty extra cartridges stacked in a box by my desk. Not to mention five reams of twenty-pound extra-white typing paper. Enough for a few novels. Or one new life. Which is why we’re here—why I wrote Bron here. Way out of his comfort zone. Way out of mine.
In fashion news… Daisy has ditched the business suit for tight black jeans and a Bron Aerospace polo shirt. Change in look, but not in attitude. In fact, she’s already told me to stop asking questions. Twice. I don’t know why, but something about her makes me want to press her buttons.
“Drones—am I right? We’re using drones!” I ask. A guy has a right to be curious.
“Switch to vector two point four,” she tells the tech. It’s like I’m not even here.
We watch Grandpa make a turn from one dusty, godforsaken road onto another. Then she turns to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Not your arena. Just keep writing.”
She wiggles her fingers at me like typing.
“Let’s go, Shakespeare. What happens next?”
Chapter 7
GRANDPA BOUNCES over a deep rut in the road. Zapata squawks, and Bron nearly bounces into the roof of the truck cab. A sharp turn tosses him against the door. The windshield is covered with a thick layer of dust. Grandpa hits the washer button. The wipers clear an arc in front of Bron just as the truck slows down and pulls into a small town. No warning. No signs. Suddenly, it’s just there.
Actually, “town” is an exaggeration. It’s more like a settlement—an odd assortment of low stucco and adobe buildings in the middle of an ocean of sand.
But compared to the last fifty miles, it’s a metropolis. It’s civilization. And Tyler Bron, micromanager, is ready to take control of his situation. He’s always been able to make things work. Why should this place be any different?
Grandpa pulls into a gas station with a single pump and a one-bay repair shop.
“Pit stop?” asks Bron.
“Nope,” says Gonzalo. “Home.”
Bron looks around. No way.
“Gonzalo, I need a favor. Can I borrow your cell phone?” Gonzalo shrugs as he sets Zapata down on the ground. The bird starts pecking the sand.
“No cell phones, se?or,” says Gonzalo. “No service.”
Grandpa grips the pump handle as he fuels up the truck. Bron looks over and mimes holding a phone to his ear. Grandpa shakes his head and laughs.
“Are you kidding me?” Bron says. “This is unbelievable.” How much worse can it get?
“No cable, either,” says Gonzalo.
This is officially Bron’s worst nightmare: a world he can’t control with a keypad. He truly feels like he’s on a different planet. He needs a way to get his bearings again. Some way to manage things. Think!
Bron scans up and down the dusty main street. Butch and Sundance would feel totally at home here. Beyond the garage, he can see a bar, a diner, a hardware store, a stucco schoolhouse, and not much else.
Grandpa’s finished gassing up. He opens the door to the pickup, reaches behind the seat, and pulls out a battered straw sombrero. He tosses it to Bron like a Frisbee. Bron reaches, but misses. The sombrero lands in the dust.
“?El sol se hará perder la cabeza!”
Gonzalo picks up the hat and hands it to Bron. “He says, ‘The sun will make you crazy.’”
“I think I might be crazy already,” says Bron. He could be sitting in his cool air-conditioned office right now, sipping a mineral water. What the hell has he gotten himself into?
Bron puts the hat on. Even his shadow looks ridiculous. But it offers a little shade for his eyes. He squints toward the edge of town and sees a building with faux pillars and gold gilt lettering on the window. A bank! Definitely not one of those too-big-to-fail banks—but still, a bank. Banks have money. And money, Bron thinks to himself, can fix just about anything.
He heads down the street, looking like one of the Three Amigos.
Inside the bank, manager Domingo Sanchez is filing papers. His teller, Maria, is filing her nails, bored out of her mind. It’s just the two of them. No customers yet.
Sanchez is looking prosperous. For him, banking is serious business, and he makes it a point to dress the part in a dark blue three-piece suit—even on days like this, when the heat makes him sweat through all three pieces.
Sanchez looks up as Bron walks through the door. The manager jumps up, suddenly energized. He snaps his fingers at Maria, who quickly drops the nail file into a pencil cup and sits up straight in her teller’s chair. Sanchez tugs his vest hem down over his belly and turns on his most welcoming smile.
“Buenos días. Good morning, sir! Domingo Sanchez, bank manager. How may I be of service today?”
Bron whips off the goofy sombrero and looks around. Two standard Steelcase desks. A few file cabinets. And a vault that says (no kidding), ACME SAFE COMPANY. But a bank is a bank, right? A bank can connect with other banks. Money can be wired. And money can put Bron right back where he’s used to being—in charge.
“Yes. Good morning. I need to access my accounts, please.”
Sanchez dabs a patch of sweat from his high forehead with a handkerchief. He beams. “Of course, of course, sir. And your accounts are currently located… where?”
“At Chase Bank. In Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts. You’re quite a ways from home, then. Vacation?”
“Right,” says Bron, “let’s go with that.”
“Well, that’s fine, fine. No problem at all, Mister…?”
“Bron. Tyler Bron.” He wonders for a millisecond if his name might ring a bell. But nothing.
Sanchez motions toward a chair in front of his tidy desk. “Mister Bron. Please.”
Bron sits. Sanchez takes a seat behind the desk and straightens two thick pens in front of him, ready for business.
“All right then, Mr. Bron. First things first. All I need are two forms of ID.”
ID? Oh, shit.
Chapter 8
SOMEWHERE, THOUSANDS of miles away, there are bank and brokerage accounts in Tyler Bron’s name, with ten juicy digits in the balance columns. Billions, just sitting there. But here, Bron is experiencing something he’s never felt in his life. The feeling of being a nobody.