[Steven Lyle Jordan]

7: The plan

"Remember Black Monday?" Cooley asked me.

"Sure," I replied. "Stock market crash of, what? '85?"

"'87. The crash was partially caused by automatic programs that weren't programmed to react sensibly to the initial downturns, and went ape-s**t selling stocks off to compensate, driving everything into the cellar."
I looked at Cooley dubiously. "I know BM isn't planning to crash the stock market. That would be more stupid than diabolical."

"Of course not," Cooley said. "But the crash taught somebody a lot about how to better write those stock-handling programs, and even take some shortcuts around the NASDAQ protective protocols... and B&M worked as the accounting firm for one of those companies. The company was in dire straits, we bought them out... and we learned about this software. Someone realized what we could do with it, right away."

"Which was what?"

"To manipulate certain stocks at programming speed, which would allow us to buy up stocks at a low price almost immediately, drive the prices back up, and dump the stocks at the top... making a hefty profit in about nine seconds, before anyone knew what happened."

"Whoa. Neat trick, if it'd work." Then something clicked in my head. "You tried it once," I said. "It didn't work."
"Yeah," Cooley nodded. "It was programmed to go after various mercantile stocks—"

"Mercantile?..." I slapped a hand to my head. "That's 'Merc'!..."

"Yeah, sure. But it crashed our system, and almost left a clear trail from NASDAQ back to B&M. The execs had our IT guys make it look like we'd been attacked, to throw the trail off of us."

The DOS attack. "And you blamed a contractor's employee for leaving you wide open for it. A guy named—" I brought my cellphone up to my face, to perpetrate like I was reading off the screen. "—Mike Schitzeiss."

"Yeah, somebody," Cooley nodded again. "I dunno who, I wasn't that deep into it." He dropped his head and shook it sadly. "Man, I knew it was a bad idea. I knew it was gonna blow up in everyone's face. This is why I just wanted to get out of it..."

I was experiencing a wild ride of emotions right then. Part of me was incensed to find out the truth behind the ruination of my career... and another part of me was triumphant at discovering the truth on my own, not to mention getting a confession that would clear my name. Even at finding out what 'Merc' actually stood for. But the angry part of me was disappointed, because it sounded like Cooley was too far down the chain to satisfy any urge of physical retribution I may have had... and yeah, right now I could have killed this guy with my bare hands if I'd thought he'd been more directly responsible... and then, the last thing he'd said—

Waitaminit. What'd he say?

"Waitaminit. What'd you say?"

"I said, I just wanted to get out of all this," Cooley repeated. "After the first screw-up, I knew it wasn't going to work. I came out here to apply for another job, to get away. Hopefully before they tried to re-use that program, and get us all arrested." He gestured at the door. "I thought you were my appointment, here early..."

"You were trying to get out? Why didn't you just go to the feds and tell them about Merc?"

"Because it would only implicate me, too!" Cooley replied. "And I'd be in jail too! No... I wanted out! All the way out! I figured if I just put enough distance between us and kept quiet, I wouldn't be implicated!"

"Cooley..." I had to admit, there was a point, there... though how often does it work out that way, except in TV shows and cheap (even free) detective stories? Still, I admired his desire to get away from the corruption of BM... and as I thought about it, I realized there might be a way to help each other.

I sat on the sofa next to Cooley. "Listen, man: You've done me a big favor, here. And I'd like to return the favor. I appreciate your wanting to get out, but it's rarely that simple. Even from here, you could be dragged back into it and thrown to the wolves. But I might be able to do something that would not only help you... but give me some personal satisfaction, as well."

Cooley looked at me. "I don't understand. What satisfaction would you get out of this?"

"I'm Mike Schitzeiss," I said.

Cooley's eyes popped, and he leaned away from me on the sofa. "Y-you're the—the guy? The guy they framed for the first screw-up?"

"That's me," I nodded. "And now that I know what it's all about, there's nothing I'd like more than to make sure they pay for their actions. But there's paying... and there's paying. And I'd like to see them pay... my way."

"Your way?"

"As only an IT guy can make them pay." Don't ask me how, but my voice sounded particularly menacing, even to me. Which probably means I've been in this business waay too long.

Cooley smirked. "You've been in this business waay too long, if you think any of the higher-ups at B&M will be scared of an IT guy."

I smiled. Thought leakage. A real good sign. "That's because they don't know M.D. Schitz."

Cooley drew a blank. "Who's that?"

My face fell appropriately. "That's me! —okay, look: What I told you about their planning to fire off Merc? I said that to fake you out. I don't know when they're planning to execute the program. But if you help me, we can be ready when they do, and... make sure they regret it. And at the same time, keep us in the clear." I extended my hand. "Will you help me?"

Cooley thought about it for a moment, understandable given the circumstances. Then, I saw him decide in his eyes, and he started to raise his hand to mine.

That's when a knock came at the door.

Cooley looked up. "Oh! That must be my job appointment!" He got up out of the sofa and started toward the door, then stopped and turned back to me. "You don't mind, do you? I really need this job to get out from under, y'know?"

I was pretty sure I already had his cooperation. Though I had no idea how much time we had, I saw no reason he shouldn't keep his appointment and get his job. "Go ahead," I said. Cooley smiled gratefully and went to the door, opening it just after the second knock.

The door was blocking my view of the person outside the door, but I heard a female voice: "Mister Cooley? Are you ready for our interview?"

I was positive I knew that voice. I think the hairs on my entire body stood at attention at that moment; which was none too comfortable down my shorts, to put it politely. As I stood up and approached the door, suppressing the urge to scratch myself everywhere, the woman stepped into Cooley's room. She had on a skirted business suit and three-inch heels, an outfit that closely walked the line between fashionably attractive and scandalously sexual, and blond hair framing an expertly-made-up face and taste-me-now lips. As she stepped into the room, she realized someone else was there... she turned her head, saw me, her exquisite eyebrows shot upward and got lost in her hairline, and those taste-me-now lips popped wide open.

"Gail!" I goggled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Gail goggled back at me, and at once, said, "Oh, s**t."