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CRANKYBLANCA
CHAPTER SIX: THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
RBB [voiceover]: Nobody talked to Hans. Nobody saw Hans. The mysterious chief engineer of Crankyland kept to himself, and communicated with those outside Cranky's inner circle by terse, precise E-Mails. There were times when I wondered whether Hans even existed at all, and then I realized that that was a stupid question. *Somebody* had to keep Crankyland running while Mr C was attending film festivals, watching movies, and writing his barbed and acerbic reviews. Mr C was Mr. Outside, and Hans was Mr. Inside. And nobody ever got inside to see Mr. Inside.
I reflected on all this as I stood there, pondering what our next move should be. I knew that we had to talk to Hans, but how to swing it? I finally figured that a direct approach was the best.
Doc Rochelle and the others were staring at me. I usually didn't stand there, face shadowed by doubt, staring absently into space; people usually had to tell me to keep my trap shut. Princess reached out a hand to my shoulder; I snapped out of my fog at her touch, smiled briefly -- a thin smile without any humor in it, and took a deep breath.
RBB: Doc, may I use your terminal to send an E-Mail?
DOC ROCHELLE: Go ahead.
RBB [voiceover]: I did my usual thing -- clicked on the Netscape icon, set up the system to send an E-Mail under my own name, and began typing. I had Hans's E-Mail address memorized, and copied Mr. Cranky. I wrote a quick, terse message, something after Hans's own heart:
"Hans: Re the Cranky Killings. I must talk to you, face to face. I will be at Cranky's Cafe Americain within the hour. If you have questions, check with the Great Purple One. RBB"
I hit the "send" key. Almost immediately, I received an answer:
"RBB: No. Hans."
I cursed under my breath. But that was only the beginning. Within minutes, the telephone in Doc Rochelle's lab rang. She answered it, and passed it over to me.
DOC ROCHELLE: It's Cranky, and he's really angry.
RBB: Cranky? Bernstein here.
JASON CRANKY: Professor, you are taking impermissible liberties. I cannot allow you to take this step.
RBB: You can't ALLOW me? You hired me to do a job, and I'm doing it. You told me I had a free hand, and I'm using it.
JASON CRANKY: No, sir, we cannot do business on these terms.
RBB: Listen to me, you cinematic eggplant. I don't tell you how to write movie reviews --
JASON CRANKY: Actually, you have told me how to write movie reviews.
RBB: Skip that. We're both writers, but you're no detective. So, you don't tell me how to run a case. If you don't like the way I'm doing things, that's tough. You hired me because I'm a professional, and when you hire a professional you can't make him do his job by the numbers. You can't tell him what to do and how to do it. You have to trust him.
PRINCESS OF PMS [whispering]: Or her, damnit.
RBB: Or her. Do you understand me? If you want to micromanage this investigation, then do it yourself or get a flunky. I'm no flunky. You got that? Will you get off my back and let me do this job the way it has to be done? Or do you want to cram this job and let me get back to my book on the First Congress? Which is it going to be?
RBB [voiceover]: For a while there was a long silence. I was wondering whether he'd call my bluff. It was no bluff, of course; I'd quit working for him in a heartbeat if he continued pulling crap like this -- though I'd keep investigating on my own hook.
JASON CRANKY: Very well, Professor. You win.
RBB: You'll square things with Hans?
JASON CRANKY: I'll square things with Hans. But you have temerity, Professor Bernstein.
RBB: Of course I do. When you're a short historian in a world that values height and sneers at intellect, you've got to have something else going for you.
RBB [voiceover]: We hung up, and I turned to Princess.
RBB: You're right. I shouldn't have used the male pronoun only.
PRINCESS OF PMS: You were talking to Jason Cranky. You had other things than equality of the sexes on your mind.
RBB: Thanks. Now we have to wait for Cranky to bring Hans around.
RBB [voiceover]: The words weren't quite out of my mouth before it appeared on the screen.
"RBB: I have spoken with Mr. C. See Doyle at the Cafe. He will bring you to me. You will have five minutes. Come alone. Hans."
PRINCESS OF PMS: Well ... I know when *I'm* not wanted.
RBB: If it was my choice...
PRINCESS OF PMS: Oh, I know, Richard. Don't worry about it. I'll have a drink in the basement while you deal with Hans, and then you can find me there and bring me up to speed.
RBB: Nothing I'd like better.
JYD: Just make sure to keep us in the picture, Prof.
zeppo: Yes, don't hold out on us. We don't want any more murders. Everyone is screaming fit to --
DOC ROCHELLE: Fit to wake the dead?
JYD: Cute, doc.
DOC ROCHELLE: Yes, my kids are cute, aren't they? The oldest just started first grade.
PRINCESS OF PMS: They *are* adorable. I hope we get to meet them someday.
DOC ROCHELLE: Count on it.
RBB [voiceover]: We headed back to Crankyland, and I wasted no time in getting Princess settled in at my favorite table in the basement with a glass of first-rate California Merlot. One of Princess's few weaknesses was good wine, and I decided that she deserved the best for the occasion. There were a few other veterans down in the basement, and soon Princess was in an animated discussion with Philm Phan and HairHead. Then I went back upstairs.
RBB: Doyle?
EAMON J DOYLE: Yes, Professor.
RBB: Take me to Hans.
EAMON J DOYLE: Nobody sees Hans. Nobody talks to Hans.
RBB: Do I have to call Jason Cranky and have him talk to you?
EAMON J DOYLE: No ... but it's ... it's just ...
RBB: You're scared of him, aren't you?
EAMON J DOYLE: Well....
RBB: Don't worry. I am, too, but the job has to be done, and I'm elected, and you're elected to help me. Look, he only wants to talk to me -- alone -- so once you bring me in your job is done.
EAMON J DOYLE: Yes. I suppose so.
RBB [voiceover]: He shrugged, at least partly to conceal a shudder of fear, and he turned on his heel with military precision and strode to the back of the club, towards the large and super-efficient kitchen. I shrugged and followed him.
All around us Crankizens were partying and arguing and calling each other names; every now and then Wolfman had to put a large, gentle hand on someone's shoulder and jerk his head slightly towards the front door. Nobody argued. On occasion black-clothed minions with forgettable faces descended on a table, shooed everyone out, and removed the table. I knew that at such times a thread had been deleted. The evicted patrons would bleat complaints, and then swallow their indignation and disperse throughout the club to join other threads and other tables.
It was just another night in Crankyland. But not for me -- I was going to see the man who made it all run.
Eamon J Doyle led me to a nondescript door. He touched the knob, and near the door a panel opened to reveal a palm-scanner. He placed his palm on the scanner, and the red light of a laser read his palmprint. A green light then clicked, and a muffled clunk indicated that the door was unlocked.
EAMON J DOYLE: After you, Professor.
RBB [voiceover]: Warily I stepped through the doorway and into a wide, darkened corridor, pausing till my eyes adjusted to the different level of illumination. Cold air surrounded me and indirect, fluorescent panels shed just enough light for me to see where I was going but not enough to cast noticeable shadows. At shoulder level, every ten feet, there was a large reproduction of the Crankyland icon. Interspersed with that symbol was a collection of rare movie posters. I whistled in appreciation at the old CASABLANCA poster autographed by all the leading cast members. Doyle didn't stop, though; he kept marching forward, just ahead of me, the stiffness of his posture indicating his tension.
We passed half a dozen doors, none with identifying signs or labels. Then Doyle paused at the seventh. Again, he touched the knob, again a panel slid open to reveal a palm-reader, and again Doyle placed his palm against the glass scanning plate. He opened the unlocked door, and gestured.
EAMON J DOYLE: This way, please, Professor.
RBB [voiceover]: Again, I stepped through the doorway, but this time Doyle stayed outside. I took two steps, and then stopped, lost in wonderment. This place was incredible. It made the War Room in DR. STRANGELOVE look like a child's treehouse.
The room was cavernous, and dark, but every square inch of the mammoth wall opposite me was covered with softly glowing VDTs displaying parts of Cranky's Cafe Americain or other sectors of Crankyland. From moment to moment, each VDT noticeably brightened as it became the focal point of attention for the man sitting in the big chair.
The big chair looked like a caricature of every executive desk-chair from every movie I'd ever seen. Sitting in it was a tall, gaunt man with wire-rim glasses and the coldest expression I'd ever seen on anyone's face. His features were regular, and he sported a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He was wearing one of those capcom headsets that I remembered from my childhood hours watching space shots, and every now and then he would whisper an instruction into the microphone positioned at the corner of his mouth. His fingers -- long, thin, tapering, but with a suggestion of immense strength as well as agility -- danced over one of three separate keyboards. I heard a muted background noise; it was the hum of machinery, interspersed with an occasional flutter of electronic beeps indicating a connection monitored, initiated, or severed.
I watched, lost in amazement. Hans was running the whole place the way that a great organist would play Johann Sebastian Bach's Tocatta and Fugue in D Minor, but the challenge seemed even greater, and the complexity of the task stunned me. I reflected that those who were irritated or dissatisfied by the management of Crankyland should spend just a few minutes watching Hans; they'd shut up soon enough.
Suddenly Hans spoke aloud:
HANS: Delete MickieT account. He has abused the privilege. Reference Bulworth Gamma-prime, cross-reference CrankFelony Bravo Delta Nine Nine Nine: illegal posting of Crankizen's real address.
RBB [voiceover]: I whistled. That was a bad one. I never liked MickieT, but I felt obscurely sad for him -- this was as close to death penalty as Jason Cranky allowed Crankyland to get. Then I heard Hans talking again, and this time it was to me.
HANS: Professor. You have five minutes.
RBB: Hans, I'll try to make it less. I have three questions, no more.
HANS: Very well. You have four minutes fifty seconds.
RBB: You know about the Crankyland killings.
HANS: Yes.
RBB: First: The killer has been dumping the bodies in Jason Cranky's office; he gets them in there while disguised as a maintenance worker. I need the name of the cleanup company here.
HANS: Eamon J Doyle will give you the information. You have four minutes.
RBB: Second, I need a list of all Crankizens who have announced their departures from Crankyland within the last six months.
HANS: I have directed that a printout be prepared and given to you before you leave. You have three minutes thirty seconds.
RBB: Third, I need you to check whether your systems are being monitored by an outside source.
HANS: Explanation required.
RBB: I need to know whether the killer is tapping into your system and identifying his victims that way, or whether he's killing and then posting phony departure messages.
HANS: The system confirms that each slain Crankizen posted his own departure message of his own volition. Neither alternative you posit seems possible. You have two minutes twenty-five seconds.
RBB: May I ask a favor?
HANS: You may ask. I may choose not to grant it.
RBB: I have to go over the information you've arranged to get to me. If it raises any further questions, may I return for a further consultation?
HANS: I will require advance word and confirmation from Jason Cranky for any further meetings.
RBB: Of course. One last thing -- you'd better check your website. I think that someone *is* tapping in here, and that he or she is using that tap to secure data to identify victims for slaughter. I think also that the killer is telling the truth about his or her ultimate goal -- to bring down Crankyland. But I don't know *why* he or she wants to do it. If we find such a tap, it may lead to an answer.
HANS: Very well. I will act on your recommendation and report anything anomalous to Jason Cranky; he will inform you if necessary. You have twenty-five seconds remaining. I will store that time to augment the time I make available for any future consultation. You will now leave.
RBB: Thanks, Hans.
HANS: Thanks, gratitude -- these are irrelevant. Please leave now.
RBB [voiceover]: I liked that Hans didn't waste time. He didn't argue; he didn't pontificate. He was in his element with this job. I wondered idly whether he was playing a game of his own to get rid of Jason Cranky, but I decided that that was beyond the bounds of plausibility. Hans seemed to like being Mr Inside to Jason Cranky's Mr Outside, and he wanted to keep it that way.
For some reason, I felt impelled to bow respectfully and then I turned and left, as quietly as I could manage it. Eamon J Doyle was standing, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for me. I looked into his eyes, and he seemed startled that I'd emerged unscathed.
RBB: Impressive set-up. Let's go.
EAMON J DOYLE: I have received my instructions. I will conduct you back to your table, and I then will bring you the information you requested.
RBB: Thanks, pal.
EAMON J DOYLE: You are welcome. It is a pleasure to assist someone who knows how to spell properly.
RBB: That's good of you.
RBB [voiceover]: We retraced the way we came, and eventually, we emerged in the brightly lit interior of Cranky's Cafe Americain. Doyle led me to the staircase to the basement, and I found Princess at the center of an admiring crowd of veterans, animatedly discussing the pluses and minuses of THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT. I waited for a suitable pause in the conversation, and then I sat down next to her.
PRINCESS: How did it go?
RBB: I'll tell you later. Is there any Merlot left?
PRINCESS: Of course. I saved you some.
RBB: Thanks. Here's to crime.
[...to be continued...]
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