The man in the navy suit nods at passersby and when he finishes his sandwich he wipes the crumbs from his lips with a handkerchief. This he folds carefully and places in the right breast pocket of his suit.
An older man in a tight sweater asks if he can share the navy-suited man’s table.
Navy nods.
Sweater says, “I’m Ron Gomez. Receiving.”
“Hi.” Navy half smiles.
Ron says, “These burritos are terrible but I just can’t help myself.”
“I’ve been warned about them.”
Ron laughs. “Mexican and New Jersey go together like bagels and shrimp.”
Navy coughs. “Excuse me.” He pulls an albuterol inhaler from his jacket and takes two puffs.
“I like your ’stash.” Ron smiles and points at his own upper lip.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Navy says and stands.
Ron gives a thumbs-up. “Needs some green chili.”
The navy-suited man walks over to the soda fountain where he refills his drink and looks out over the cafeteria. That’s when a cell phone rings in the left breast pocket of his jacket. He answers, “Where are we?”
A voice cloaked in static says, “T minus five.”
“What’s taken so long?” Navy asks.
“Usual.”
“Fucker. Give me a countdown, I’m moving to the east side.”
Navy makes his way leisurely to the opposite side of the cafeteria, where the walls are mostly glass. Outside it’s raining. A golf cart with two men in baseball caps maneuvers between a copse of elms beside a small pond. Navy says, “Where are the cameras?”
“South by the fire extinguisher, east by the deli counter. T minus three.”
“Picture good?”
“Yes.”
“Feed?”
“Good.”
Navy stands at the windows and nods to the men in the golf cart. One of them waves. Navy says, into the phone, “Tell that moron to keep his hands down.”
“T minus two. You ready?”
“Course.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if the explosive charges we used were too big? I mean, if the place just goes down like when they do demo on skyscrapers. Just poof.”
“Hilarious.”
“T minus one. Do your thing, maestro.”
The navy-suited man with the fake moustache puts the cell back in his jacket and turns to face the cafeteria. He clears his throat and cups his hands around his mouth. “Excuse me! Excuse me! Good employees of Omni ConsumerTronics, I am the chief operations officer for Strategic Art Defense and your corporate mess hall is about to be remodeled. Just sit tight. No one move and this shouldn’t hurt a bit.”
The good employees sit at their tables, look to each other, shrug, screw up their faces. The ones standing sit. Several make for the exit. But before any of them can speak there is a crackling sound and then a rush like a passing car and the walls begin to fall inward; all of them come billowing in like tossed sheets. Someone screams. Plates crash. But the walls don’t thud to the floor and send bits of plaster flying like shrapnel; there is no cloud of dust and particulates. No, it’s not the walls that have fallen but the floral-patterned wallpaper. Within seconds, the walls are bare of flowers and the floors and tables are draped. A number of people struggle out from under the sheaves of paper looking furious, looking confused. Navy suit, still at the window, shouts, “Remain calm! The operation’s almost complete.”
There is silence as the last wallpaper strips curl down. All of the Omni ConsumerTronics employees gaze in wonder at what’s been revealed, at the wall beneath the wall.
Photo collages.
Each wall, all sixteen feet up and eighty-odd feet back, covered in three by fives like tiles. Each wall, the photos are aligned to produce large pictures from a distance. On the north wall the photos all come together in a woman, smiling and smoking a joint. Someone near the espresso machine says, “Isn’t that Allison in human resources?” The south wall, it’s a man holding aloft an inflatable sheep. Someone over by the cash register shouts, “That’s Karl Asaro!” Last wall, west wall, the image is another man, this one in drag. Everyone sees it but no one shouts. Eyes, widened, avert. This is because the man in drag is Omni ConsumerTronic’s CEO Andrew Godwin looking as cheerfully proper in a wig and makeup as he does in the portrait hanging by the clock above the entrance to the cafeteria.
The employees wander to the collages. They look, point, mumbling all the while. Each photo is a photo of an employee. And even though the faces are blacked out, they still recognize their coworkers. Some of them are just smiling and waving. Others are sleeping with their heads on their desks or smoking in the break room or making photocopies of their cleavage. The good employees of Omni ConsumerTronics see themselves in the collages. They see their coworkers going to the bathroom, their bosses fucking trannies on desktops. They turn away from the walls blushing or giggling or screaming or, in the case of one blond man, fainting.
The chief operations officer for Strategic Art Defense surveys the crowd and then bows his head and says, “Gentle employees of this multinational monstrosity, I bid you good evening. Enjoy the art!” And with a running leap he crashes through the large east wall windows, rolls on the rain-slicked lawn, and dashes out into the settling fog.
There is a loud crowd at Motor Town in the East Village and tables are scarce.
The jukebox is down again but one of the bar backs has set up a ghetto blaster, cranked up all the way, and while the sound is terrible and tinny the music competes amiably with the raucousness of the drinkers. Sitting on wobbly stools at the front near the Jesus icons that cover the walls, the chief operations officer for Strategic Art Defense, still wearing his navy suit, sips a Little King with the two men from the golf cart. One of them, black with smooth features, a menacing goatee, and a cowboy hat, says, “Any word from Uncle Al?”
“Yeah. All clear.” The chief operations officer for Strategic Art Defense nods. He says, “Cops moved in half an hour later but not before the Net was blowing up with reviews, critiques. All brilliant, of course.”
“And?”
“And the bids came rolling in about twenty minutes ago. Omni ConsumerTronics said they’re willing to split any proceeds down the middle. Love to support the arts, they say.”
“Naturally.”
The third man, narrow eyed and gangly, asks, “We moving on the apartment cull?”
Navy suit says, “Tonight. Recon. The tour is wrapping up better than expected and I’m feeling good about the prospects in Newark.”
“The stars are aligned.” Gangly nods sagely.
Goatee asks, “When’s Richter coming in?”
“The twenty-third. I’ll give him love but bet he’ll be drooling to help. I get why it’s me who has to be the face of this thing and interact with Richter but I’m dying inside because of it. Cody, I’d love to see you try and suck up to him.”
Goateed Cody says, “That’s not my bag, boss. You’re the one with the superhuman abilities.” He looks over to the gangly guy and says, “Let’s put Rufus on Richter detail.”
“Hell no,” Rufus says. “Supremely bad karma.”
Cody scoffs.
“How do you see all this going down, Laser?” asks Rufus.
“We need experts,” Laser, the chief operations officer for Strategic