seymoure

The Starting Gun

“The ability to learn faster than your competitors
may be the only sustainable competitive advantage.”
-Arie de Geus

While Gerald was too involved doing what we had asked to give us any attention and Hugo was looking through a Classics Illustrated version of “The Iliad,” I called the office to check in.

“Well, Boss, we got about 6 calls and hang ups,” Rayleen said, I could hear from her voice that she was checking her log book and counting the slash marks she makes when something repeats.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Well, we got a call from the computer people,” she happily revealed. “They should be able to deliver sometime next month.”

This takes a bit of an explanation.

Early this year we had an interview with a perspective client. He was an ex-cop from New York named Dave Mathews. He wanted us to see if there was enough of a paper trail to sue a TV network for theft. He had been developing a series about his work with the Police Department as an undercover agent. He had been working on a show that would be called “Mathis,” but even when they did a pilot and it got good response, it was dropped. Then the same company and lead actor had moved over to another network and did a show called “Mathix.”

I had to explain that the show, even though they had used the same actor, was far too dissimilar to be worthy of a lawsuit, much less hiring us to gather intelligence that might lead to a lawsuit that wouldn’t happen.

His show was about an undercover cop who walks around looking as seedy as the crooks. The show on the air had been about a detective (not on the force) who works for a private firm that uses computers to solve crime. The show even dropped the computers the next season and became a run-of-the-mill P.I. drama.

Mr. Mathews decided to find someone who would take his money more happily, but the idea of computers and investigation was a subject that, once it had been in Rayleen’s head, was not going away.

She had been interested ever since last year when somebody introduced something called a “floppy disc.” She was learning languages (it seems machines have their own languages) and wanted to try to program them.

“If we could put together a data base of suspects we could speed up an investigation a hundred times,” her sales speech went, “not to mention having all their information, addresses, known accomplices, and everything about them available at a moment’s notice.”

We got a rate by buying one for the college, too, something Gerald would be able to use also, so it all came off our taxes. We needed all the loopholes we could find.

“Fine, you’re happy,” I said. “We’re getting your computer. What, beside’s the delivery of “The Jetsons’” Uni-blab, is waiting for us?”

“Not Uni-blab,” she was a bit insulted. “More like HAL from last year’s ‘2001.’”

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “Didn’t he try to kill everyone?”

“There’s very little chance of that happening,” she told me, then added, “I think.”

“Okay,” I chuckled, “what else?”

“Then, about a second after the last one, I got a request that you personally call one of a couple of numbers.”

“What’s the number?” I was intrigued.

“You probably should come into the office to make the call,” she told me. “I doubt you have enough coins to call either number.”

“Oh?”

“The first one is in Greece. Athens, actually, the phone company tells me.” She was intrigued also.

“And the other one?”

“Scotland Yard.” She was grinning. I could hear it.

“You’re kidding!”

“That’s not all,” she continued. “I got another call, a different voice that wanted you to call them. This time they gave a name.”

“Well, that’s progress,” I smirked. “Who wants to hear from me so much?”

“A Victor Malvito from . . .” she waited.

“What, you want a drum roll?”

“It would be good,” she admitted, but when I said nothing she added, “Malvito is in Tokyo.”

“Japan?”

“No, Tokyo, Arkansas. Of course Japan. So,” she was leaning in on this, “who are you going to call first?”

“I’m going to have you make the first call,” I said, checking my watch.

“They were very specific that they wanted you to call them personally,” she defended.

“I want you to call Marlowe’s and order some pizza,” I explained, “We’ll make a party of it.”

She was crestfallen, “Okay.”

“Hugo and I will be back there in about 20 minutes, time your call to fit.”

She bid me farewell and I turned to our scientist. “What have you got for me, Gerald?”

“Not a damn thing, Sir,” he told me in total defeat, “No fingerprints, no dust or dirt that might be a clue. The toy is from the Nelson Art Gallery’s collection. $25 plus tax. They will be faxing you copies of who bought them in the last year.”

“How many have sold?” I asked.

He looked at the pad in his hand, “That would be . . . one.”

Things were looking up.