Revolt of the Rats by Reed Blitzerman (ap literature book list .TXT) 📖

“HOW WE LOOKING DOWN there, George?”  Wesley’s voice expanded from the speakerphone, filling the room.

“Almost done, boss. Give us another thirty minutes.”

The line was still open. Wesley paused, distracted by the view. From the 30th floor, Chicago (there were no penthouses in Frampton) was perfect. The distance made the grit invisible. Traffic crawled along the edge of the lake in orderly strings. Brick apartment buildings teeming with roaches were picturesque from here, their arched facades thrusting out of the snow. Skyscrapers saluted, dressed in straight lines.

Wesley fidgeted with his tie. “You know Frampton’s got to make schedule. They’re fifty percent of our volume.”

“Yeah, boss.”

He’d fought his way from a tenement dweller parsing Warren Buffett’s annual letters, to Motomax CEO at forty-three. His tattered originals were long gone, replaced by handsome bound copies and a master’s degree in accounting from Westlake, a school out east. He talked in numbers, relied on numbers, and trusted numbers. That’s how things were done.

“It’s been three years since I took Motomax public. The time for missed commitments is over. Frampton needs to turn the page.”

“We’re with you, Wesley.” George was one floor below, where accountants and analysts checked and double checked the numbers from desks in their glass-walled cage. 

“I’ve got a reputation to uphold after all,” Wesley said. “I need to know there’ll be no more mistakes.” Like keeping Bodge. All the angels in heaven but that had been a doozy.

Months ago he’d toured Frampton with Bodge and the engineering manager, a human mole named Oroszco. They waded on safari through clouds of oil, pointing out various processes, the stroke of stamping presses forming a drumbeat in the roots of his teeth. Black liquid condensed on his arms and neck, like an army of leeches slithering across his skin.

Wesley had asked one question. “Are you going to make your numbers this month?”

“That depends, sir. The devil’s in the details.” Oroszco said it plain as giving the weather forecast in Tibet. Insubordinate.

He’d already looked at the details back in civilization, at his desk. When were these guys going to wake up? Lazy. These two were lazy. His ears were hot. He couldn’t fire Bodge, but he could send a message.

He stuck his index finger in the human mole’s face. “That’s not true. The devil’s in the numbers and I had those in Chicago. Give me your badge, Oroszco. Bodge, walk him to Rick in human resources. He’ll know what to do from there.” Oroszco had gone the color of lard and then shuffled off, threatening to teeter into stacks of stamped parts. That had been difficult.

Motomax needed more leaders like George Bristol. He’d boxed in college and remained punchy, a little distasteful really. But the analysts below him followed the rules. And he was loyal. There’d be no more betrayals. With George on the job, Motomax had started to hit their numbers.

Ahead of schedule, the lift doors pinged open. “Morning, boss. Just finished this.” George handed over two inches of printer paper bound with thick steel staples.

“George, my good man.” Wesley riffled the first three pages and frowned. He looked up.

“I know, boss. It’s bad. As goes Frampton, so goes Motomax. And Frampton’s in the shitter again.”

Wesley squeezed his eyes shut. He looked at the report again. Its numbers were not perfect, not even close. Much like last quarter. He broke out in an oily sweat. He’d have to swap out his shirt. Something had changed these last three months, but he was damned if he could put his finger on it. George needed to understand where they were at.

Wesley took a deep breath. “Wall Street analysts are like vultures. If profitability falls, they’ll swoop off a power line and tear our credit rating apart. Then they’ll start in on our stock price.”

He paused and thought about what he was going to say next. He trusted George. No one else had detected yet what he was going to say. “Somebody’s buying up the stock. As the stock price drops, the purchases are accelerating.”

George whistled between his teeth. “So who is it, boss?”

“We won’t know their identity until after they own five percent of the stock. At that point, they could request a seat on the board.” Control would be lost. Everything I’ve worked for would be gone in the blink of an eye. Wesley tucked the report under his arm and exhaled with effort. “Rumor has it the buyer is Dallas Haight.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” Wesley tapped the report with an index finger.

“No one’s seen him in years.”

“That’s right. He disappeared after Bodge pushed him out.”

George set his shoulders. “What do you need me to do, boss?”

Wesley knew he’d picked the right man for the job. He’d be damned if some old man would take away what was rightfully his, founder or not. “I need you to find Dallas Haight.”

George re-entered the lift. Wesley started an email to Niles Bodge. He had to get those numbers back on the rise, and pronto.  It was time for some stronger medicine.

“You still want to go to the fights this Friday, boss? I can get us a couple of tickets.”

Wesley looked up from the computer screen and leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’d like to see some blood.”

You let your feet run wild

Time has come as we all go down

Yeah but for the fall oh, my

Do you dare to look him right in the eyes?

Cause they will run you down, down till the dark

Yes, and they will run you down, down till you fall And Yeah so you can’t crawl no more

And way down we go

Kaleo, “Way Down We Go”

Half Death Trap, Half Money Pit

HIS BRUSH HIT THE CANVAS and for an hour his office was a studio. Niles concentrated on the couple in the foreground, loading the brush thick with paint. It danced hurriedly across the images, looser than his usual musings. He had to capture the moment before it disappeared.

The couple sat side by side, following passersby through a picture window, perched on spindly-legged restaurant chairs. Their evening finery glowed below the blaze of globed streetlights, painting the cobblestones outside yellow with reflected radiance. Trees framing the window were evergreen, frozen mid-wave. Across the street, shops of limestone brick served silent sentinels. Their arches framed a bakery crowned by a veranda of cerulean wildflowers.

For once, Niles felt satisfied. Today was like that magical first day of 3rd-grade summer school. It had finished with art class. He’d sat entranced with the other eight-year-olds, as the balding old man created a snowman for them to mock. There was a carrot for the nose, branches for the arms, and a striped hat hung to the side at a jaunty angle. When he got home, Niles presented his treasure to his mother in a small, dirty fist.

Her hand passed through shoulder length brunette hair, the cigarette ticking up and down between her fingers in time to her speech. “That’s good, baby. I like the colors.” She smiled then, the Queen to her Prince.

Her brown slacks whispered as she walked into the kitchen and put the first one on the refrigerator. Perhaps sensing his enthusiasm, the instructor had let him bring the paints home. Mom asked, “You gonna make me another one?” He did another, and she taped the second to the wall.

She regarded the pictures the way she sometimes did the electric bill or letters from the attorney. A divot formed between her eyebrows. “That’s got a good feeling to it.” She bent sideways at the hips, looking from the picture to Niles as if she were seeing him for the first time and asked, “Would you like your own set?”

They spent the summer in the living room. His little easel laid claim before the sleeping television. Mother decamped to the recliner, where study guides for the paralegal exam lay stacked on a TV tray. She passed it the following summer and got a new job. It was a nice raise over her take as a secretary. She used her first paycheck as down payment on a car.

They left the used car lot on a balmy June afternoon. His mother skipped first gear for second, sliding the station wagon off the cracked concrete pad and out into traffic. He was so proud of her. She looked as beautiful as the musicians on television in her brown-tinted sunglasses. It was the same color as the car’s fake wood paneling.

Mom spoke without looking away from the road. “We’re rolling now,