THE MISFIT UNIT: 7) THE DATAVEILLANT
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
13.
R. James Cloverland's "briefing" on Zudex International comprises of nothing more than a smattering of paper printed from the Zudex internet website.
And an inquiry put to Monaco's police through Interpol had not yet garnered a response.
The FBI requested The New York Times for Jason Groner's notes on Zudex. But the Times decided this was not ethically proper, and declined.
And then a response from Monaco: As a resident in good standing for three years, Michael Zudex had created a number of jobs for Monegasques and contributed to Monaco's booming economy. In addition, Zudex has financially sponsored Monaco's celebrity tennis tournament.
While Cloverland contemplates this brief communiqué from Interpol, his secretary informs him that Jeff Dalkin is on the horn.
"I'm busy. Tell him to call back tomorrow."
"Mister Dalkin says it's urgent."
"Okay, put him through." Cloverland's first thought is that Ralph Serafina is already too much trouble.
"Zudex," says Dalkin. "Ring a bell?"
“Yeah. What...?"
"My misfit Brit knows all about Michael Zudex."
"Huh?" Cloverland tries to make sense of this. "Zudex is clean."
"That's exactly what I'd expect to hear from the F-F... flatulating fart-brains—B-I. Zudex is filthy."
"Shit," says Cloverland.
"Filthier," says Dalkin. "I don't think I should say more over the phone. But, obviously, you need to know what we know, because, as usual, you know diddly-squat.”
"But... but… you're not supposed to be doing anything real," Cloverland splutters. "That's not your mission."
"Sorry, boss—Nazi schwinehund. You're telling me that Project Rooster—fuck-a-doodle-do—is a cock-up?"
"Not funny."
"The fuck it isn't."
14.
Jeff Dalkin is finishing a plate of poached eggs, smoked bacon and biscuits in Jeannines on Coast Village Road when his cell phone whistles. "Yeah-what?"
"It's me," say Bradley Fatwood of Bacon, Hump. "Did you check for those discovery documents?"
"Sure did.”
“And?”
“Zippo."
The lawyer remains silent for a moment. "No bank statements?"
"Especially no bank statements."
"Not even expense receipts?"
"Not even."
"Did you keep diaries, you know, an agenda or calendar, during that period?"
"Sure."
"Where are they?"
"Trashed long ago," says Dalkin. "I'm not a sentimental guy. Especially when it comes to self-incriminating diaries, agendas and calendars."
"Plaintiffs’ attorneys are going to squawk," says Fatwood.
"They're already squawking. Who cares?"
"The judge will. We already have plaintiff's first set of interrogatories."
"Inter-what?"
"They put forward a list of questions, in writing. You have to answer them, in writing. Are you coming to Washington anytime soon?"
"Not if I can help it."
"Also, I had an e-mail from the plaintiff’s attorney, Milton Worthog," says Fatwood. "He wants to set up a conference with me. He says he's concerned that you're moving your assets out of the country."
"What assets? Bacon, Hump—heaving horseshits—is already taking everything I got."
"Worthog says he doesn't trust you."
"He's a lawyer and he doesn't trust me? I was in a bar the other day and I called all lawyers assholes. Some guy objected. I said, 'Are you a lawyer?' He said, 'No, I'm an asshole'."
"Funny," says Fatwood. "Shall I fax you the interrogatories?"
"How many pages?"
"Thirty six."
"Fuck me. You legal folks are damn good at generating paper. Send it by snail." Dalkin disconnects, stews on this developing escalation then taps out a number on his phone.
"Speak!" a voice commands.
"That you, Schvantzy?"
David P. Schvantz is Dalkin's dataveillant; an expert in the fine art of raping databases worldwide. All very legal. Loopholes, says Schvantz.
"I need a cut-rate job, pronto," says Dalkin.
"Cut-rate and pronto aren't twins," snaps Schvantz.
"Worthog and Worthog," says Dalkin. "A law firm in Martinsburg, West Virginia."
"You want a globescan?"
"No," says Dalkin. "I'll settle for a timber assessment. I just want to know who the fuck they are."