The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination Read Online Free PDF

It was not uncommon for this room to host hundreds of guests at receptions and galas. Thomka and Murthy strolled across the gleaming marble floor, beneath a real brontosaurus skeleton suspended from the ceiling, toward a charming little bar in the far corner. There, on a white leather couch, sat the Arch Bishop, or Virginia, as they would now address her. She had traded her overstated vestments for an overstated dressing gown. “Something to drink, boys?” she asked, raising her half-empty snifter.
    “Not before the sun’s over the yardarm,” said Thomka, mocking himself. He owned a yacht but had never done more than sit in the captain’s seat.
    “Abstinence is its own punishment,” she warned.
    “In that case,” said Murthy, “make mine a triple.” He kissed her on both cheeks and slid into a matching white leather chair with an all-encompassing view of what was once the world’s greatest collection of public art, the UN Sculpture Garden. “I don’t know why you ever bought that boat, Al,” he said. “Oh, now I remember . . . you’re paranoid.”
    Despite her many conceits, Virginia was a terrific hostess. “Petey’s tending his tomatoes.”
    “How’s that going?” asked Murthy.
    “He’s crazy about that greenhouse thing he’s building down on the river. On those barges. Old coal barges. Spends all his time out there ordering crews around. He loves it. All of a sudden, he’s a micro-climatologist and permaculture expert. Just a hobby, he says. I’m not allowed to see it until it’s finished. It’s a surprise.”
    Thomka moved to the bar. “Maybe I will have one.” He seemed more skittish than usual.
    “Here he comes,” said Murthy, waving to a thin man of average height in a misshapen black cowboy hat heading toward them.
    Virginia adjusted herself, and cautioned, “He’s got a lot on his mind. You know that computer-network-game thing you told him about, Al?”
    Murthy’s nostrils flared.
    Thomka tossed a mortified glance at her.
    Murthy glowered.
    Petey entered with a handful of tomatoes. “What’d I tell you, Virginia, ripe tomatoes weeks before spring. Doesn’t matter how much money you have — can’t get a good tomato unless you grow your own.”
    He put the tomatoes on the bar and tapped himself a beer from one of its many colorful pulls. “Well, Al, I had security look into that game thing,” he said, taking a foamy swig of a hoppy ale. “It doesn’t look like much of anything. Just a bunch of weird . . . activities. The kind of things people with no money do. They call them social games, but I don’t get it. Pinheads, geeks, iStooges. Techno fringe. Just what you’d expect. You know who I mean.”
    Thomka countered sarcastically, “Yeah, the people who control our digital infrastructure. Such as it is. We’re at their mercy.”
    Murthy leapt to his feet. “You talking about that Tuke thing?”
    “I only mentioned . . .”
    “I told you I’d take care of that! I got a guy . . .”
    “Please,” said Petey. “It’s a little early for this. Doesn’t matter anyway. The whole thing is just a very large game platform. The Tuke Nerdvana.”
    “They didn’t give Tuke the Nobel Prize because they liked his graphics.”
    “We infiltrated one of their games,” said Petey. “Our undercover guy played a full round, if that’s what you call it. Seemed a little light for a game. Arrested its organizer.” He added somewhat amused. “You know they call us . . . reptiles? She’s been questioned and released.”
    “How generous,” Virginia said adoringly, lifting her glass.
    “Generosity is an expression of power,” he replied, joining her in toasting himself.
    Thomka wished he hadn’t heard that. Petey’s misanthropic attitude was at the heart of his growing doubts.
    “The Massive is just a collection of not-too-sporty games, or missions, or something. Hundreds of them. Insignificant. But I don’t know how they’re connected. I didn’t think there were that