The Interview

A Short Story

It was just like any other New York City summer afternoon: hot and humid, loud and chaotic, and stinking like an open sewer. Cooper walked along the sidewalk, meandering around the chattering locals, avoiding the dog shit that dotted the landscape, alternating his glance from his phone to the buildings across the street. He finally reached his destination and smiled confidently: WeWork. How they were still in business he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Because this was where his interview was scheduled.

He checked the time: 2:40 p.m. Twenty minutes to kill. He scanned the block and spotted a local coffee shop. It wasn’t a chain—that was better, he needed to start to get the feel for the real New York City, having arrived only two weeks earlier. They had told him that a southerner was never going to make it in The Big Apple, especially after having spent the first twenty-five years of his life in the same state, in the same city. But he had nothing to lose, because his skills were in high demand, after all, and where else but New York City to sell them?

He looked to his left, stepped off the curb, and as he did so a bike messenger roared past him going in the wrong direction. Cooper instinctively jumped back onto the sidewalk, like a leopard in the Serengeti. He stared down the messenger, not that it mattered except to make Cooper feel better about himself. He needed to be pumped, ready. He checked both ways and crossed the street. The coffee shop was full of students mostly, people his age, all with laptops open, some listening to music, others on video calls. The new normal. He ordered a black coffee at the counter and then found a seat. As he placed his backpack on the floor his phone rang. He fumbled for his ear buds and answered.

“Hey champ, how you doin’?”

“Hey, Bob, I’m—”

“Change of venue. You’re meeting the manager at his apartment. Write this down.”

“Say that again?” The connection wasn’t great: static every other word.

“The WeWork lease won’t be signed until tomorrow. Gotta pen?”

“Hold on.” Cooper found a pen in his backpack while Bob kept going, his words coming at Cooper like a machine gun fusillade.

“He’s on twenty-ninth street—”

“I said hold on!”

“Two-one-one static. . .”

“Say again?” Cooper scribbled the address on a napkin.

“Static. . . twenty-ninth street. . . static forty-one. You got that buddy?”

“Two-one-one twenty-ninth street, number forty-one. Got it.”

“Don’t fuck this up, champ. Krupo’s doing something big, security on the blockchain. Right up your alley.”

Krupo. The conglomerate founded by wunderkind Mallory “Teflon” Rusk, creator of an empire that had its hands in multiple nascent industries. Like an octopus overwhelming its prey, it had been ruthless at staunching the competition by either acquiring companies with complementary intellectual property (IP) or out-competing them into oblivion. It didn’t hurt to have the ear of the current administration that passed laws ad personam to help Rusk’s empire expand. Rusk’s interests included electric vehicles (EVs), EV charging stations, solar panels, space tourism, and multiple social media platforms. He even had a restaurant chain that specialized in vegan fare, (its motto was “Extending your life one meal at a time!”), so that he could drop into any of the locations as he traversed the country, be doted upon by his minions, all while respecting a diet, among other things, that he believed would extend his lifespan well past one hundred years.

“I thought the position was for the EV division,” Cooper said.

The static had subsided, except now there was the sound of a violent windstorm coming through the line. “That’s been filled. This opportunity’s better. I sold you on—” His voice went out, then came back ten seconds later. Cooper didn’t have the chance to ask what he’d missed. “—you’ll be one of their first hires, the lead programmer, in charge of security. You’ll be calling the shots.”

 “Offer’s the same?”

“The base is. But now there’s more equity. The equity’s the upside. You get it?”

“Is there room to negotiate—”

“Whaddaya mean!”

“More up front cash?”

“Are you crazy? Do you know how many candidates they get a day? Everyone wants to work for that crazy fuck.”

“That’s the thing, getting in on the ground floor of his companies means I’ll have zero autonomy, and I will be lead programmer in name only.”

“I negotiated this deal just for you, buddy!”

“This is New York, not Charlotte. I can barely afford a cab ride—”

“Hey, pal! You want this gig or not?”

“I’m getting kicked off my friend’s couch at the end of the month—”

The line went dead.

Cooper stared at the napkin. He punched the address into his iPhone:

211 29th Street, New York, NY

Two locations popped up: 211 E. 29th Street and 211 W. 29th Street.

He dialed Bob’s number. Straight to voicemail. “Fucking recruiters.” He fished a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “Heads, East. Tails, West.”

Tails.

He threw the cup into the trash and headed west, alternating a brisk pace with a slow jog down several blocks until he stood opposite his destination.

The building was nine-stories tall, its façade covered by one of those local law eleven sheds that permeated the New York City landscape, giving the city the feel of a permanent construction site. Black garbage bags were stacked on the curb in front of the building, half of them torn open, spewing filth, oozing down in small rivulets to form black and brown and yellow stains on the pavement. And the noise level had risen to maximum human decibel tolerance, probably due to the echoing of the engines and the sirens and the horns and the jackhammering along the narrow canyons.

Cooper again looked both ways before crossing the street. He tried to peek through the glass door, but it was covered in building and work permits. He checked the intercom panel. No names. He wondered why someone working for one of Rusk’s companies would live in such a squalid building. Maybe it was a hiring firm they had contracted with. Maybe the guy had just moved into town, like Cooper had, and this was temporary. After all, they hadn’t signed the WeWork lease yet. That was probably it. Plus, Rusk was known to be a cheap bastard. He smiled, took a deep breath, and pressed number 41.

A moment passed. Cooper hesitated, then pressed the button again.

“You’re early,” a voice finally said through the intercom. Cooper checked his phone: 3:03 PM. Technically he was late.

The door buzzed, and Cooper entered the lobby. He heard the door slap shut behind him. A single fluorescent light oscillated above the mailboxes, casting a pale, intermittent glow in the cavernous hallway. The elevator had an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to its door. Around the corner, a door marked STAIRS was propped open. He glanced behind him, then he stepped inside and climbed the stairs. They were dusty and poorly lit, as most of the light fixtures were bulb-less. He passed standpipes, rolled up fire hoses, and random debris left by tenants, and careful not to trip on the uneven steps, climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached the fourth floor.

Entering the hallway, he found apartment 41 and knocked on the door. Dead silence. He scanned the hallway for a buzzer. Then came movement inside and the door opened, revealing a short man in his mid-to late-sixties. His dress shirt was untucked underneath his sports coat, his attire complemented by pressed slacks and loafers without socks.

The man scanned Cooper up and down. “Not what I expected.”

Cooper wanted to return the sentiment, taking in the man’s bling—gold day-date Rolex, a gold bracelet, and a gold chain with a gold crucifix around his neck.

A moment passed. Then the man stood to the side and motioned for Cooper to enter, checking the hallway behind him before shutting the door.

The man gestured toward a couch and Cooper took a seat, placing his backpack on the floor to his right. It was a small apartment, low ceilings, cracked plaster walls void of pictures, with one closed door visible in the back. The shades were drawn, the only light emanating from a table lamp sitting on the coffee table in front of him. The lamp’s cord ran behind two chairs that sat across from the coffee table, and stretched to an outlet on the far wall. Minimalist IKEA, to put a label on the décor, it that was even possible.

The man, now seated across from Cooper in one of the chairs, scratched the stubble on his chin and looked at his watch. “You come highly recommended,” he said.

Cooper nodded. He wasn’t sure whether to introduce himself or wait and go with the flow.

“You know how these things are,” the man continued. He checked his fingernails under the glow of the lamp, flaunting a gold pinky ring with a large, blue stone.

The silence was uncomfortable.

“What can you tell me about the opportunity?” Cooper finally asked.

“It’s a local job.”

“I heard.”

“It’s going to require some detailed planning.”

“The design phase, yes,” Cooper said.

The man stared blankly at Cooper for a beat, then continued. “The timing will be critical.”

“I see.” Cooper leaned forward, feigning interest, when in fact he had no idea what the man was talking about.

“They bet a lot of money on this. That’s why you’re here.” The man pointed the ring-adorned pinky at Cooper.

“What else can you tell me?”

“Rusk’s scheduled to be in town all next week.”

“Mallory Rusk?” Cooper asked, surprised.

“What other Rusk is there,” he said sarcastically.

Cooper let out a chuckle. “Sure, sure, of course. I get it. Rusk always takes a personal interest in his startups, in the early stages.”

“Right,” the man said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ll have to spend time scanning the site, track comings and goings. See who goes in and out, who has access, who—”

“I know, you don’t have to tell me. That’s my specialty, what I do best.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” the man said.

“What are the specs,” Cooper asked, a bit more confidently now. He felt like he was making some headway, finally understanding what the man was asking him to do. Rusk had purposefully sabotaged his own startups to see if the teams could take it, to see if they were Rusk material, pass his own personal litmus test. These days only God knew what Rusk was capable of doing, like unleashing a platoon of malicious bots to wreak havoc, or deleting system files, or killing virtual machines at random, or even pulling the plug on physical servers to see if the system could withstand catastrophes. So of course this was a test, first and foremost, Rusk was coming to town to make sure that the system Cooper designed on the blockchain was hack proof, make sure it withstood the impact of Rusk’s whims. Cooper needed to secure the shit out of what he was creating. That’s what he excelled at.

And if “they” had bet a lot of money on this, then there should be enough for a bump in salary. But Cooper decided to wait, he didn’t want to come across as greedy, not in the first interview. Hell, he’d even ask Rusk himself, once he had demonstrated his engineering prowess.

The man got up from his chair. “Wait here.” He walked to the back of the room, opened the solitary door, and disappeared.

Cooper sat back and sighed. Bob hadn’t told him anything about this opportunity, but that was OK, he got it now, typical Rusk. And fine, the guy was wacko, but if that’s what it took to create the next-generation killer app built on the blockchain—because if it wasn’t a killer app that redefined the industry, if it wasn’t a game-changer, then it wasn’t worthy of Rusk—then Cooper was in. This is why Cooper had left Charlotte. This is why he was in New York. To make it big. And this opportunity was going to be the first of many.

The man came back carrying a brown leather briefcase. He placed it next to the chair and sat down.

“It’s got to be done next Friday,” the man said.

“I’m on it,” Cooper said.

“It has to happen before Wall Street closes, within the last two hours. . . definitely not before 2 p.m. That’s the only way this will work.”

Cooper shrugged. “That gives me ten days. I’ll work the weekend.”

“Do what you have to do.”

Cooper gestured toward the briefcase. “I’ll need to see the specs of course. For the POC.”

“The what?”

“The proof of concept, that’s probably all I’ll have time for by next Friday.”

The man examined Cooper.

“There isn’t a lot of time. I’m working alone, and until I’ve seen the specs, I can’t promise anything… but I’ll do what I can. Bob only told me—”

“And Bob is?” The man reached for the briefcase.

“The recruiter,” Cooper said.

The man nodded. He pulled the briefcase onto his lap, while Cooper leaned back, starting to finally relax.

The man opened the briefcase. The next thing Cooper knew there was a semi-automatic pointed at him.

“What the—”

“Who sent you?”

Cooper sat still. “I. . . I. . .”

The man closed the briefcase and set it down. Then he stood and in one effortless movement flung his chair against the wall.

“God damn it! No wonder you’re here early. You’re not the guy.” He stepped forward and raised the gun to Cooper’s head. “You’re just some punk that went to the wrong address at the wrong time. And now you know too much.”

Cooper raised his hands. “I. . . don’t know anything.”

The man took one step closer, gun locked on Cooper. Then the buzzer sounded.

They both glanced at the door.

The man checked his watch. “See? This motherfucker’s on time.”

He started backing up toward the front door, eyes on Cooper, when his foot caught the lamp cord. The lamp crashed to the floor. The man shifted his gaze momentarily, and that’s when Cooper grabbed his backpack and hurled it with all his might, hitting the man square in the head. The man lost his balance and fell backwards, his gun flying as he braced himself for the fall.

Cooper jumped over the coffee table and dove for the gun, knocking over the briefcase in the process. He grabbed the gun, and just as the man propped himself on his knees, Cooper smacked him across the temple with the weapon. The man fell on his stomach. Then he groaned and began to crawl toward the door.

Cooper bounced to his feet and pressed his foot on the man’s neck. “Don’t move,” Cooper said.

The man gasped as he spastically clawed at Cooper’s foot. He pressed harder. “I said don’t move.”

The man stopped writhing.

The buzzer rang again. Cooper glanced at the intercom, then lowered the gun and pointed it at the man’s head. “What do you want with Rusk?”

The man gasped again.

Cooper lifted his foot. “Turn over.”

The man complied. He lay on his back, grabbed his throat, and rubbed it. “They shorted the stock,” he whispered.

“What?”

The man coughed. “Krupo stock.”

“I don’t have time, pal.” Cooper kicked the man in the groin.

The man yelped. Then he mumbled, “They want him dead. . .”

“Everyone wants him dead. Who’s they?”

“Make money off the stock sell-off.” He motioned with his head. Cooper turned toward the splayed open briefcase. In it was a dis-assembled sniper rifle, scope and all.

“Go on.”

“Eliminate Rusk. . . within the last two hours of next week’s stock market session. No time for the stock to recover. . . gives them time to make a bundle.”

“I said who’s they?”

The buzzer rang again, and this time it didn’t stop.

The man smirked. “You don’t want to know—”

Cooper kicked the man hard across the head. There was a sharp crack, like a snapping twig. The man lay motionless.

The buzzer stopped for a second, then started again.

Cooper wiped the gun with the fold of his jacket and threw it onto the couch. He nudged the man with his foot. No response. Dropping to his knees, he searched the man’s pockets. In one he found an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Cooper pocketed the envelope, shouldered his backpack, and bolted out the door. He ran down the stairs and when he reached the ground floor, peeked around the corner. Outside the lobby door, a man was vigorously pressing all the buttons on the intercom.

He took a deep breath, plastered a fake smile on his face, sauntered down the hallway, and out the front door. He held it open for the man, who said nothing as he shoved Cooper aside and stormed inside the building.

Cooper ran down the block, slalomed around pedestrians, sprinted across intersections, and jumped over assorted piles of strewn shit and garbage. He reached 211 East 29th Street in five minutes. This time there was no scaffolding, there were no trash bags piled on the curb, no stains on the sidewalk, and he could see clearly into the clean, well-lighted lobby. He leaned over, hands on knees, panting.

He waited until he caught his breath, then he wiped the sweat from his forehead, and pressed number 41.

The voice from the intercom said, “You’re late.”