The Never Game

Shaw thought of Frank and Sophie Mulliner’s exodus to Gilroy, the Garlic Capital of the World. And the Walmart hoboes whom Henry Thompson was writing about in his blog.

Eyes on the sign, Standish said, “Have a couple open cases in the Task Force. Some of the big tech companies, they run their own employee buses from San Francisco or towns way south or east. They’ve been attacked on the road. People’re pissed, thinking it’s those companies that’re responsible for everything being so expensive. There’ve been injuries. I told them, ‘Take the damn name off the side of the bus.’ Which they did. Finally.” Standish added with a wry smile, “Wasn’t rocket science.”

Avon had created a consortium of local corporations, Shaw read, who would offer the reasonably priced housing to employees.

A generous gesture. Clever too: Shaw suspected that the investors were worried about a brain drain — coders moving to the Silicon Cornfields of Kansas or Silicon Forests in Colorado.

He wondered if because Destiny Entertainment wasn’t in the same stratosphere as Knight Time and the other big gaming studios, Avon had chosen to expand into a new field — one with a guaranteed stream of revenue: real estate.

The receptionist then said that Avon would see them. They showed IDs and were given badges and directed to the top floor. Once off the elevator they noted a sign: THE BIG KAHUNA THATAWAY →.

“Hmm.” From Standish.

As they proceeded thataway, they passed thirty workstations. The equipment was old, nothing approaching the slick gadgets at Knight Time Gaming’s booth; Shaw could only imagine what that company’s headquarters was like.

Standish knocked on the door on which a modest sign read B. KAHUNA.

“Come on in!”

40

Gangly Marty Avon rose from his chair and strode across the room. He was tall, probably six foot five. Thin, though a healthy thin that probably came from a racehorse metabolism. Avon strode forward, hands dangling, feet flopping. His mass of curly blond hair — very ’60s — jiggled. Shaw had expected the creator of The Whispering Man to be dressed gothic, in black and funereal purple. Nope. A too-large beige linen shirt, untucked, and, of all things, bell-bottoms in a rich shade of rust. His feet were in sandals because what else could they be in?

Shaw looked around the office, as did Standish. Their eyes met and he raised a brow. While the reception area may have featured pictures of the crazy psychopath, the Whispering Man, here the décor was kids’ toy store: Lionel trains, plastic soldiers, dolls, building blocks, stuffed animals, cowboy guns, board games. Everything was from before the computer era. Most of the toys didn’t even seem to need batteries.

Standish and Shaw shook his hand, and he directed them to sit on a couch in front of a coffee table on which sat a trio of plastic dinosaurs.

“You like my collection?” His high voice was dusted with a rolling Midwestern accent.

“Very nice,” Standish said noncommittally.

Shaw was silent.

“Did you both have a favorite toy growing up? I always ask my visitors that.”

“No,” they both answered simultaneously.

“You know why I love my collection? It reminds me of my philosophy of business.” He looked fondly at the shelves. “There’s one reason and one reason only that video games fail. Do you want to know why that is?”

He picked up a wooden soldier, an old one, resembling the nutcracker from the ballet. The CEO looked from the toy to his visitors. “The reason games fail is very simple. Because they aren’t fun to play. If they’re too complicated or too boring, too fast, too slow... gamers will walk away.”

Setting down the toy, he sat back. “Nineteen eighty-three. Atari is stuck with nearly a million cartridges of games that nobody wanted, including the worst video game in history: E.T. Good movie, bad game. Supposedly, the games and consoles were buried in a secret landfill in New Mexico. Not long after that the entire industry collapsed. The stock market had the Great Crash of ’29. Video gaming had ’83.”

Standish steered the meeting back on track. She asked if Avon knew about the recent kidnapping.

“The girl from Mountain View? Yes.” Behind him was a huge poster for Siliconville. His desk was littered with maps, many official-looking documents, some photocopies and some with seals and original signatures. The real estate project seemed to be taking more time than his gaming business.

“There was another one too, late last night.”

“Oh, I heard about that! It’s the same kidnapper?”

“We think so.”

“My God...” Avon looked genuinely distraught. Though, understandably, his was probably a double-duty frown, the second meaning being: What does this have to do with me?

“And he appears,” Standish said, “to be modeling the crimes after The Whispering Man.”

“No, no, no...” Avon closed his eyes briefly.

She continued: “We know about the incident in Ohio a few years ago.”

His head was hanging. “Not again...”

Shaw explained what Sophie Mulliner had found in the room she’d been sealed into.