Chip mentally tallied his options. "How much of a severance package?"
"Fifty-five million dollars."
"Payable how?"
"On resignation." "It's not what I'd earn over the long term if I stuck around..." he mused aloud, hoping the offer might be sweetened.
"It is also far inferior to your reimbursement if you remained with us through our next and most expansive phase," said Friend.
"There isn't enough money in the world to be worth life imprisonment in a federal prison if this business scam—I mean plan—goes sour."
"Then may I assume you intend to sever your relationship with XL SysCorp?" prompted Friend in that sometimes infuriatingly upbeat voice of his.
"Yeah. Sure. That's my decision," Chip said vaguely, visions of billions of dollars fleeing his personal bank accounts. Was he leaving or was he being pushed?
"May I have two weeks' notice?"
"I can do that, I guess," said Chip. Two weeks. Maybe something would come up between then and now to scotch this blackmail thing.
"Good. In the meantime my environmental sensors have detected a gas leak in the subbasement vault area."
"A gas leak? Are you sure?"
"Yes, and it is very dangerous. It should be looked into."
"I'll call the gas company," said Chip, reaching for his virtual phone. It vanished before he could touch it.
"No," said Friend." I would like to handle this internally."
"So what do I do?" "XL security cameras tell me we have picketers in front of the building again today."
"Yeah. When word got out that you could get sick working for XL, the picketers tripled. Now they only say they want jobs. What they're looking for is a lifetime insurance settlement in return for a week's work."
"Hire them all."
Chip made a frowning face, "To do what?"
"To look for the gas leak."
Chip brightened. "It's low tech enough that maybe they could do it without screwing up."
'' My thinking exactly.''
Darnell Jackson had never had a job in his life. None of his friends had ever worked—worked in the honkie sense of working, that is.
A lot of them worked their asses off hustling and boosting and doing grafts now and again. But the concept of walking into the imposing XL SysCorp building through the front door by invitation in broad daylight was a new one to him.
Darnell was more of a back-door kinda dude.
"This feels weird," he whispered to his main man, Troy.
"Know it," Troy whispered. "But it's a big payday for maybe a week tops in this place."
"Yeah, and we can boost stuff, too," added Pip.
"Don't be a chump," Troy snapped. "They catch you boostin' in here, they run your dumb ass right off the lot. Then you lose out on the long payday."
"Yeah. You won't catch me boostin' anything," said Darnell.
"Maybe on my last day when they be carryin' me out on that golden stretcher," laughed Troy.
They were taken to a conference room with long cherry-wood tables and chairs so comfortable they felt weird sitting in them in their scruffy street clothes.
The white guy who had opened the door and invited them in to put in for a job was handing out sheets of paper and sharpened yellow pencils. He was sweating bullets.
"Just fill these out," he said nervously.
"Then what?" asked Darnell.
"Then I'll come back and look them over."
"This like a test?"
"No. All you have to do is fill in the blanks."
Darnell blinked. Troy looked at him.
"He talking bullet?"
"Ask him."
Darnell raised his hand because he had a dim recollection of doing that in the third grade, just before being expelled for stabbing that mouthy teacher whose name he'd long ago forgotten.
"Do you mean like blank bullets?" Troy asked.
"No. I mean the empty spaces in the application."
"Is this what these are—applications?"
"Yes. Just write your names, addresses and Social Security numbers."
This time Troy raised his hand. "Which Social Security number?"
"What do you mean?"
"The Social Security number we used to get our welfare checks, or the one we use on our driver's license, or the one we give to the cops when they catch us?"