The Pedant

The Pedant

The sign on the front door read: "Bank Hours—8 to 6." The clock in the lobby showed 5:58.

"I’m sorry, I can’t make out the name. Is that ’Cray’?"

"Clay. Clay Iverson." He stood at the tellers’ booth, looking down at the girl behind the window.

The girl glanced up at the man. He wore the casual, elbow-patched suit of an academic—but behind the glasses were blue eyes, at once beautiful and coldly ruthless.

"Is that short for Clayton?"

"No. For Claymore."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"That’s a strange name."

Clay ignored the comment. He glared at the girl. Like a living cliché, her voice carried the astringence of a heavy Long Island accent. With her smooth face and sharp, wide green eyes she would be very pretty, thought Clay, if not for the caked make-up, the cheap blond wig and the loud red business suit.

"Is that an Irish name? My boyfriend is Irish. He’s from Ireland."

"It’s Scottish."

"Oh, well, they’re pretty much the same, right?"

"No."

The girl ignored him. "He says that people from Ireland are the smartest people on earth, but that they can’t get anything done because they aren’t ’detail-oriented’. Are you detail-oriented?"

Clay paused for a moment with the slightest feeling that there was something strange about the girl. The feeling vanished, unidentified. There was, after all, nothing unusual about an idiot.

"Can I get my cash?"

"Oh, sorry. I have such a tendency to run off at the mouth."

Evidently so, mused Clay. She continued her chattering, and his mind wandered back to the preceding afternoon. He had seen his sister for the first time in three years. She had called from the plane in-flight, Tokyo to Los Angeles, and he had met her for lunch at the airport. He’d had nothing to bring his little sister but three carnations picked up on the way—which made it an unusual day in another respect. Today was the first day in his life that Clay had floated a check. He had seen the little old lady selling flowers at the little old corner stand in North Hollywood as he drove to the airport. He had known, after last week’s spending spree on vacation from the newspaper, that his checking account was literally down to its last dollar.

He stopped to purchase the flowers anyway.

The little old lady had smiled wisely when he asked to buy three carnations.

"If it’s for a girl you’d better not buy less than a dozen," she had said.

"You mean fewer that a dozen."

"What?"

"Fewer than a dozen. ’Less’ describes a quantity of something—like a material or substance. You might say ’less water’, but not ’fewer water’. Whereas ’fewer’ describes a number—as in ’fewer apples’, not ’less apples’."

"Well I never," she had said.

Clay knew his nit-picking, as his sister—Heather—called it, irritated some people, but he had to fight for what was right. ’Fight for what’s right’—that was how he had described it to her when it inevitably came up today. They had spoken about his recent break-up with his girlfriend. Their relationship had always been turbulent. The final break had come after an argument about the etymology of the word ’apostrophe’. Heather had only laughed. "Dangling participles isn’t exactly the Battle of Britain, you know."

He bought three carnations from the flower lady—no fewer.

After lunch he had picked up his paycheck and planned to deposit all but some pocket cash on the way to his home, north, in the Valley. Now he stood at the teller’s window at Hollywood First Trust and Holding bank, hoping the flower lady had not yet sent the check to be cashed, and listened to the maddeningly talkative teller-girl.

"… forty… fifty—really we’re supposed to talk to our customers. Make chitchat—at least that’s what Mr. Delgado says—he’s the day supervisor on this side. Where was I? Sixty… seventy… "

She slowly counted the bills, staring intently at the cash drawer. Clay shifted his long frame from one foot to the other. He brushed a shock of not-too-recently-cut amber hair out of his eyes with an impatient flick.

The girl handed him his cash and smiled. "Thank you," she said as if to end the transaction.

"Can I have a receipt?"

Clay thought he saw a flash of fear in the girl’s eyes. She immediately recovered. "Oh, of course."

She began to scan the piles of paper slips, smiling nervously as she picked a few and glanced at them. She found the right one and began to scribble on it.

"Computer’s down today," she mumbled apologetically.

"Are you new here?"

"Yes!" She blurted out, relieved. She finished filling out the paper and handed it to Clay. Behind him, someone shut the door. Clay looked over his shoulder. It was six-o-clock. A security guard had shut the front door, and now stood next to it.

He looked at the receipt and froze.

She had given him a money market account withdraw receipt. Again, more clearly now, Clay felt there was something amiss. A long moment passed as he considered the situation. Could she really be that stupid? His mind raced as he tried to remember any inaccuracies the bank had committed in the four years of his patronage. There had been none—not a single problem. The tellers never failed even to remember his name.

"What happened to the person who usually works today?"

"Hmm?" Her head jerked up sharply. "He has the day off."

"I’m sorry, what was that?" He asked it only so that she would repeat herself—he wanted to be sure.

"I said he has the day off."

The normal teller was not a he, but a she.

Clay looked up from the receipt. She stared back at him, frowning. She hadn’t noticed the passage of time—she had been studying him.

Her eyes darted past his right shoulder, and came back to rest on his eyes. "Sir, the bank is closing… Sir?" She began to frown. "Sir, I really must ask you to leave." She was beginning to lose the accent.

"You’re not a real bank teller."

"How… ?" She blinked up at him indecisively. "Sir, I must ask you to leave right now."

"What’s going on here?" Clay didn’t move.

"Sir!"—no more pretense of an accent. The voice was bell-like; forceful and confident.

"I… well… " Clay began to stutter.

The girl started to cut him off but stopped. Her eyes flitted again over his shoulder. The security guard! Clay spun around. The guard was drawing his sidearm. Clay saw the glint of a stainless steel barrel drawn from a military-style holster. The girl’s voice rang out behind him. "Don’t do that!"

"Wait!" was all that Clay could think to say. The guard looked as if he didn’t intend to wait. Clay ducked fast and waited for the crack of the weapon. When it failed to come, he looked up and saw the guard running toward him, fast, waving the gun wildly. "Hey!" the girl yelled.

The guard would be upon him in an instant. Clay didn’t wait. He spun and kicked his foot up high to the teller’s table and launched over the window, catching his foot on its top edge. He twisted in mid-air and landed hard on his side.

There was a bell-like yell from behind: "You idiot! Stop!"

Clay leaped to his feet, gasping to refill his shocked lungs. In front of him the area behind the tellers’ windows closed into a long hallway ending in a cubicle wall. Other doors and small halls led from the main hallway to smaller offices. He ran toward the offices.

There was another yell from behind as he entered the long hallway. He tried a side door at random. It was locked. He tried another. Also locked. For the space of a quarter-second he had the sudden thought that he was being ridiculous—there was some mistake. People just weren’t attacked at random by bank guards and tellers. He looked to the side, down the hallway. The guard had climbed over the teller’s window and ran toward him, still waving the gun. The girl ran ahead of him. She was drawing something from her jacket—he didn’t know what it was, but wouldn’t wait to find out. He launched forward. At the end of the hall the carpet ended and the floor was tiled with slick marble. He tried to turn the corner, but slid forward into the cubicle wall at the far end. It collapsed backward. He fell over the bent wreckage and lost his footing, landing again on his bruised side.

When Clay looked up through the pain, six faces gaped back at him, shocked. Three men wore suits and sat in chairs. The other three were dressed in workman outfits. Two stood and one sat at a computer terminal. All three workmen pointed automatic handguns at him.

The girl skidded to a halt in front of the flattened cubicle wall, and hopped lightly to the other side. Next, the security guard arrived, still holding the pistol. No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Finally one of the workmen blurted, "What do you want?"

"To deposit a check."

"Huh?"

The girl was first to recover. "Okay, Mr. Clayton, or whatever your name is, it looks as if you’re in trouble. I tried to give you the opportunity to leave, but you were more interested in establishing my identity." She reached for the guard’s pistol and he handed it over without comment. "Now sit down with the rest of the day crew here and do exactly what you’re told, and we might not have to use these." She gestured theatrically with the gun.

Clay rose painfully. "Iverson. Claymore Iverson is my name."

"Whatever. Shut up."

There were no more chairs. Clay sat on the floor next to the unarmed men—two of whom he recognized as bank employees.

The girl turned to the security guard. "What the hell was that?"

"Well, I thought you said we should behave—"

"Wait," she said. She glanced at Clay. Then in a quiet voice, turning back to the guard, "Can it."

"What?" the guard asked, obviously surprised.

She looked hard at Clay before she continued addressing the guard. "You heard me. Drop it now. Just pretend nothing happened."

Clay recognized the round executive’s face of one of the bank vice presidents. He lifted a hand to get his attention. "What’s—"

"Hey! I said quiet!"

The vice president glared at the girl and spoke up. "Hey, c’mon now. This guy has nothing to do—"

"Shut up," snapped back the girl.

"But—"

"Shut up!"

The vice president looked at her hard for a moment, then rolled his eyes. Clay didn’t know what to make of the exchange.

The girl turned to one of the workmen. "How long?"

"Three minutes," came a smooth reply from the man at the computer terminal, furiously typing.

She began pacing. There was nothing left of the vacant-minded teller. She pulled off the wig with a swift motion, revealing a head of fire-red hair matching the color of her suit and pulled back tight, and Clay realized that she was far more than just pretty. She grabbed a blue nylon duffel bag and dropped the wig inside. "How long?" Her voice was impatient, but not nervous.

The man at the computer looked up and smiled sideways. He made a show of looking at his watch. "Still three minutes."

The girl let out a heavy breath. She leaned against the wall and drummed the fingers of one hand on her other arm until, noticing herself, she straightened up and resumed pacing.

"Well?"

"Almost got it."

One of the other workmen leaned over the man at the terminal. He turned to face the girl. Clay saw a patch on his uniform that read: "Excelsior Office Maintenance, Inc." He wore a look of forced calm as he spoke to her. "We’ve got it. We just need to find the right directory. All the old systems had the individual account data in the ’accounts’ directory."

"Naturally," she growled through her teeth. "How much time?"

"Three minutes"

She turned to the nearest of the standing workmen. "Check the connection." Her voice was smooth, clear and used to command.

"I just checked it."

"Check it again."

"Right." He ran to the outer offices.

"Ma’am?" Clay tried to sound respectful.

She jerked her head toward him. "What?"

"Would you mind telling me, did you actually deposit that check into my account?"

She let out a short laugh. "Well, the system we practiced on was a little outdated… but yeah—I think so."

"You think so?"

"That’s right. I think so. You have a problem with that?"

"Well, yes. It’s my money."

"An entire bank is getting robbed and you think we’re going to worry about your money?"

He couldn’t answer. Of course that was his main concern, but he could think of no way to say so without sounding like an idiot.

The girl had been studying him again. A strange, mischievous grin flashed over her face.

"Anyway, it won’t matter in a minute. Your money is going to one of our offshore holding accounts. Don’t ask where."

The bank vice-president gasped and fixed a glare at the girl. She returned the look, as if to say, "Shut-up," and went back to ignoring him.

"I won’t ask," said Clay, not noticing, "but you can’t just clean out a bank… with one quick transaction—not at this hour, at any rate."

She paused only for an instant. "We aren’t. We’re just going to install a little program of our own. Unfortunately we weren’t able to crack this computer remotely. It’s designed so that it can only send information over a network, not receive."

"So what’s the—"

The girl spoke to the workman again, cutting Clay off. "Time?"

"One minute, fifty-five seconds."

"So what’s the hurry?" Clay persisted.

"Daily download. Every branch office has to download the daily security file by six-o-five on the dot, or else the doors are remotely locked and the police arrive."

"Oh, dear."

"What."

"After what you’ve told me, you have to kill me, don’t you?"

She stopped, taken aback, then smiled with amusement. "Nope. Just kidnap you for a few days—just long enough for our modifications to take effect."

The round-faced executive spoke up. "Hey, look lady, just tell him the truth. She’s just—"

"Shut up!" she yelled.

He glared at her, then rolled his eyes again.

Again, Clay didn’t know what to make of the exchange. He decided to keep asking questions. "But won’t they check the computer? I mean, when they find that we’ve all disappeared?"

"Who cares? They won’t find our work. By the time they do it’ll be too late. Time?"

"One minute, thirty-five seconds"

"What the hell is taking so long?"

"I think you’ve been watching too many movies," observed Clay.

She ignored him.

His tone changed. "Having too much trouble getting cast lately?"

"What? How did you know I’m—?" She stopped, genuinely surprised.

"An actress? In this town? Just playing the odds. Actually it was your overblown Long Island lockjaw, and your makeup."

"I only moonlight as an actress."

"This is your day-job?"

She only smiled. "Time?"

"One minute, fifteen."

She laughed strangely. "This is my day-job. What’s yours?"

"I write crossword puzzles for the Times."

"What?! You write crossword puzzles? What an exciting life." Her voice dropped into unhidden sarcasm.

"I earn my money. There is no one so worthless as someone who has to steal. I produce something. You may not think it’s worth much, but it’s not simple-minded destruction, like what you do. If it were up to me I’d—"

"You’d what? You’d shoot me? Well I’m the one with the gun." She paused, glaring. Then her eyes narrowed with mischievous amusement. "You don’t like thieves, huh? Let me tell you, this virus we’re installing is going to affect much, much more than just this one bank in this one city of this one little country. I really think that we could end up with several billions."

"Billions?" Clay couldn’t help but gasp.

"Uh, yeah, that’s right. Several billions for us, but of course there will be much more than that in, er, collateral losses."

"Collateral losses?"

"We won’t be able to recover the vast majority of the funds lost, but one point seven percent of half a trillion ain’t bad."

"Are you saying that you expect to destroy half a trillion dollars of other people’s money? It’s just going to cease to exist?"

"Sure." She smiled as if at a terribly funny joke. "How’s that for destruction? Still want to kill me?"

Clay didn’t answer. He had the feeling again that there was something strange about this girl; again, she was lying. Everyone but the man at the computer stared at the girl as if she were a lunatic—even the other bank robbers.

"Time?"

"Fifty seconds."

"Hurry."

Clay spoke again. "Why are you lying to me?"

"What makes you think I’m lying?"

"You couldn’t have set up something so elaborate without being the sort to think it through."

"You think I missed something?"

"You tell me you’re going to destroy half a trillion dollars—"

"About that much, yes."

"—and come away with a few billions."

"Yep." She smiled again with casual amusement, as if these events were only an unimportant diversion.

"And how long do you expect this to take?"

"About three weeks." She paused; she seemed to Clay to be temporizing. "It’s hard to predict with great accuracy, of course—it’s a kind of chain-reaction."

"It wouldn’t work, even if it were true."

"Oh? Why not?"

"What do you think your billions would buy you after the world economy had collapsed? That’s what would happen, you know. By the time you could withdraw your money it wouldn’t be worth the paper it was printed on. It wouldn’t even buy you a loaf of bread. You missed that little detail, didn’t you?"

Her eyebrows rose with a look of amused tolerance as she paced.

"Criminals always do," he continued, ignoring her. "They always forget to plan what they are going to do after the job—after all the excitement is over you’ll have a lot of useless electronic money. You should have read a book on economics before you tried something like this. But I don’t suppose you understand that, do you? That’s why you’re a criminal—because you don’t think about the details. Just like those Irish people you told me about."

The girl stopped pacing. She seemed to be seeing something new in the situation. She looked at the floor for a moment, then as quickly smiled and looked up again.

"You’re very good, Mr. Iverson, but it won’t matter. We’re still going through with it."

"But why?"

"Why not?" She seemed more and more amused, even flippant.

He looked her in the eye for a long moment. "You aren’t a bank robber either, are you?"

Her face went white, but she held his gaze. Her voice went quiet. "You are clever, aren’t you?"

"It’s not going to work—whatever it is."

"Quiet."

"You know I’m right, don’t you?"

"Yes—no… " she whispered, still staring at him. The pistol she held slowly lowered to her side. She seemed dazed.

Clay saw his chance. He jumped forward and yanked the pistol from her hand.

The man at the terminal saw and drew his weapon. He pointed it at Clay.

"Put it down!" she yelled, not at Clay, but the workman, who slowly put the pistol on the desk.

Clay gestured toward the computer. "Stop what you’re doing."

The girl looked at the workman. He looked back. She turned to Clay.

"No."

"I said stop."

She hesitated. "Time!"

"Thirty-five seconds!"

"Get up and back away from the computer!"

"What do you care?" She didn’t move, but her face appeared close to panic. "What’s it to you, damn it?"

"I’m not going to lose my paycheck."

"That’s it? You want your damn paycheck? Big deal. What was it, a few hundred bucks? Tell you what. I’ll triple it. I give you my word. Just give me your mailing address and—and… " Her words drowned in her own laughter as she realized their absurdity. As she spoke the workman slowly turned back to the computer terminal.

"No. My check isn’t the only reason. You may consider this only a minor detail—"

She interrupted. "But I consider all details important, no matter how minor."

He ignored what he assumed to be more sarcasm. "—and I don’t know what you’re doing, but if it were right you wouldn’t be doing it this way. It is not right and I won’t let it happen."

"Are you so sure?"

The man at the terminal yelled before Clay could answer. "Got it!"

The girl spun. "What?"

"I’ve got it. I’m ready to install the script. " He glanced from Clay to the girl. He looked unsure. "Should I. . . ? Should I still send it?"

"Time?"

"Fourteen seconds."

"Get away from the computer!"

"Would you really shoot us? Over your little paycheck and maybe some of someone else’s money that doesn’t even exist except as electrons? I don’t think so."

He took a step forward. The gun floated inches from her face. His voice was quiet and steady. "Stop this right now."

In an instant, she brought up her hands to cover her face and screamed. "Send it! Now!"

Clay whipped the pistol around, pointing it at the workman’s torso, and pulled the trigger. Everyone jumped at the report of the pistol in the small room.

The girl slapped her hands down on the table and looked at the backs of them, puzzled. The workman jumped up. "Ow! God damn it!" He ripped his shirt off and threw it on the floor. Clay looked at the gun and then down to the shirt. There was a small green stain on it. The workman rubbed a spot below his left breast with a hurt expression. "Ow!"

The girl stood still. She gazed at Clay. "You did it. You actually would have killed him—You’re wonderful"

"All right. Time’s up."

Clay spun. The words had come from behind. Halfway down the hall one of the office doors stood open and a man in a conservative dark suit came through the doorway, stopping when he saw the wreckage of the cubicle wall.

"Who are you?" was all that Clay could think to say.

"I’m Mike Krantz, the… " He looked slightly confused. "…the bank liaison for the test?" He said it like a question, as if only to jog Clay’s memory. Finally he tore his attention from the mangled cubicle wall. "Well Miss O’Brien," he said, looking past Clay, "It seems your exemplary success record may have been somewhat exaggerated. I can’t say I’m overly upset. What happened here?"

Clay looked back at the workman. "I missed?"

He looked back accusingly, still rubbing an angry red weld developing on his chest. "Paint rounds." Then in answer to Clay’s unspoken question, "Stings. It’s okay—you didn’t know."

The girl sat down on the desktop with a heavy sigh, looking suddenly exhausted. He turned to face her. She only stared back. "What… What test?" he asked.

Krantz spoke to Clay. "You mean… are you not a part of the penetration team? And what about that bang?" looking back at the girl but pointing at the gun still in Clay’s hand, "You told me you had never had to use them in a job."

No one answered. Clay was to first to speak. "Penetration team? Are you another bank robber?"

The girl piped up, addressing Krantz. "He just stumbled into it. He has nothing to do with the test."

Clay felt his vision narrow. His voice was tight with checked anger. "Just what the hell is going on here?"

Understanding began to dawn on Krantz’s face. He smiled. "I’m very sorry, sir. This has been a test of our security systems. Miss O’Brien is in the employ of this institution." His smile suddenly changed to a glare at the girl. "She is not a bank robber. Miss O’Brien, you allowed this man to believe that you were a dangerous criminal?"

"Well I—"

"Miss O’Brien! I was against the Board’s decision to employ the services of your somewhat dubious profession, but this is absolutely intolerable. Do you realize that this behavior on your part could open the bank to significant legal action? My God!" His face began to flush red. "I’m going to have to ask you and your team to leave at once—No." He held his hand up to stop her speaking before she started. "—I don’t want any report from you now. Just mail me the full brief when you’re done."

She glared back. "What about the ten percent?"

"How dare you ask for ten percent now?"

"The agreement was fifty percent in advance and fifty percent after—"

"If you succeeded."

"—and ten percent after if we didn’t succeed."

He frowned down at the former cubicle wall, then looking for someone to help, he looked up at the bank vice-president who still sat in his chair. There was a faint smile on his face. "I’m only here to observe, Krantz."

Krantz bolstered himself. "Well, ten percent, if you don’t succeed? Well, I don’t know where you got that idea from, Miss O’Brien. I will—"

"From where you got that idea," she said under her breath, habitually correcting his grammar with a tired expression. Clay heard and spun to face her.

"—er, what? Whatever. I will discuss your claim with the board tomorrow, Miss O’Brien." Krantz turned and started down the hallway, waving his hands dismissively as he walked. "Now get out before I call the police."

Clay looked down at the girl. "So. I was wrong. There was a valid reason for you to be doing what you were doing. I should have known you’re not a bank robber."

"Oh? How?"

"You don’t look like one."

She smiled up at him. "Details, details."

"I’ve cost you some money, haven’t I?"

"About four thousand dollars."

"How will I ever be able to repay you?" he asked mockingly. "You didn’t have to let me distract you."

"No. I didn’t." She began to straighten, regaining her energy.

"And the half trillion dollars?"

"I made it up." Her confident, impish look was back.

"Why?"

"For the same reason I let you distract me. I was curious how you would react."

"I see. So, did I pass your little test?"

"You wanted to know how to repay me. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you if you passed."

He did, and she did.

First published in The Ideal Review, ca. 1999