Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

I’ll tell him anyway,” I said. “In case we set off any alarms. He may want to close up here, too.” I went over to the desk, pocketed the numbers Mr. Howieson’d left for me, dialed four, told Tom our plans, topped up my drink, and we left. A couple of minutes later we were four floors down in pensions, which was a large, airy, open-plan office studded with computer outlets, various sizes and shapes of printers, shelves of various shapes and sizes of paper and envelopes, and all the rest of the paraphernalia you’d expect.
    “There,” Frank said when the last of the overhead fluorescent lights had flickered on. “Where Mrs. Jones works.” He pointed to a tidy desk by the south window. Then he pointed to a cubicle separated from the other work spaces by moveable screens. “Where I work.”
    “Where do I work?” I asked him.
    “Any desk with a terminal,” he said.
    “Except Mary’s,” I said. “Without being paranoid any more than usual, she might have her board rigged up to snitch if anyone fools with it.”
    “You can’t be serious,” he said. “Mary?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, where some sunburned skin was peeling.
    “Mrs. Flint,” I said. “Debby. I went to see her before she left town and I vaguely remember her saying something about her hubby not being too happy because he was due for a promotion but presumably didn’t have the seniority to jump over Mary to your level, but she wouldn’t move up because she was happy where she was, so he was stuck. Any truth in all that, or are we talking here office gossip or petty jealousy?”
    “I believe she did turn down a promotion sometime ago, yes.”
    “Would the difference in salary levels and improved artwork on the walls be as significant as the difference between Jones’s salary level and Flint ’s, which Debby told me was considerable?”
    “Certainly,” he said.
    “Are we not in the United States of America ?” I said.
    “We are.”
    “And do you not find it curious, if not outright suspicious, that an IMM executive would turn down a substantial promotion?”
    “Well, now that you mention it...” he said.
    “Yes, I do mention it, Frank. Now, tell me this, amigo. Tell me in one short phrase, preferably yes or no. Jones and Flint —were they handling incoming or outgoing funds?”
    “The latter,” he said.
    “Ah,” I said.
    “All incoming contributions whether company-based or employee-based go through me.”
    “Ah. Now here’s the big one, Frank, ready? Did anyone other than Jones and Flint assist with the outgoings?”
    “Only secretarily,” he said.
    “Meaning stuffing envelopes and licking stamps?”
    “Well, we use a stamp machine, but basically, yes,” he said, looking worriedly into his empty glass. “Also, no one else has the entry code but me.”
    “Thank you, Frank,” I said. “Now comes the fun time when you sit me down and turn me on and code me in and we let the pensions roll.”
    He sat me down at a metal-topped desk on one of those surprisingly comfortable secretary chairs that have an adjustable back and five sort of tentacles with wheels supporting it, dragged a similar one over from the desk next door, then flicked on the screen, which went, “ Ping !” He tapped. A series of what we computer aces call menus came up, which are really only a listing of your next options. He chose “Pensions,” which turned out to have a whole menu to itself. From that menu he choose “MPS.”
    “Insert code,” the machine told him. I looked away politely as he did so. Some seconds later, up came the first page of forty-two hundred pensioners’ names, addresses, and the monthly sum they were due, starting with “Aaron, Peter L. 501 N. Mariposa Avenue., Los Angeles 90046 CA USA. 2/L. Coc. $1824.46?”
    “What’s ‘2/L?’ ” I asked Frank.
    “His basic pension level at retirement,” he said.
    “What’s ‘CoC?’ ”
    “Payment made by company check.”
    I looked at that first page; there didn’t seem to be anything of interest to anyone except the guys getting the bread. I said, “Scroll me down, Scottie.”
    He punched a key that said, “Page Down,” and a new page came up, if you follow me. I looked at it. I asked him what that capital “F” meant at the end of one line. He said it indicated a foreign payment.
    “Ooh la la,” I said. I thought for a moment as more pages rolled past. “Does anyone get paid by directly debiting your company account and directly crediting