Baba

Cathleen Townsend

BabaYaga.com

  Joe leaned against the bar and took a sip of his beer. “So, you see the possibilities, right? From where I’m sitting, it looks foolproof. Online marketing is the way to sell these days. And BabaYaga.com has boosted sales for every one of our clients.”

  The man sitting next to him looked doubtful. “I’d have to think about it. It’s a new product, and usually I only go with things that have a proven track record.”

  “Well, caution is fine, but with such a low investment, it’s hardly worth missing out on the increased sales. Two-fifty down, twenty-five a month after that, and that includes twenty-four hour web support. That’s nothing when it comes to advertising.” Although the hundred dollar commissions were definitely worthwhile.

  “That’s still expensive for what you’re selling, and the monthly fee is a disincentive.”

  Joe took another sip of his beer. “Look, to be equally frank, if you’re going to quibble over an amount like that, you might not have the vision a successful entrepreneur needs.” Sometimes, taking it away worked wonders. Never be too eager.

  “How does it work? I’ve never heard about a product that can change Google ads.”

  Joe snorted. “Do I look like a computer geek? For all I know, this thing could use magic. What I do know is the program makes new connections with the data it’s given.” He shrugged. “Look, I’m in sales. And the secret there is to always have a product that sells itself.” It still amazed him this line worked so often. If the product sold itself, no one would pay a salesman to sell it. But so far, only two people had ever called him on it, and they were lost causes anyway.

  Joe started getting his things together, although the trick there was not to do it too fast. Just as he dropped a tip onto the bar, the guy said, “I can cancel anytime I want? No penalties?”

  Joe gave him his best sincere smile. “We’re not a cellphone provider─we don’t need that crap. Cancel anytime you like. But nobody has so far.” That was easy to say when your company was less than two months old.

  A credit card number later and the deal was done. Another hundred bucks. Time to go to another sports bar and find another mark. Four sales later, it was time to knock off for the day.

  He drove to the square little building on the outskirts of town and shook his head as he opened the front door. What a dump. For the kind of money this old biddy apparently had, you’d think she could at least make an effort. Someone needed to explain to her that dusty knickknacks on every available surface didn’t make the ultimate decorating statement.

  The black cat on the counter hissed at him, but at least that resulted in the appearance of his boss. “You do well? You make sale?” It was just as well she never wasted words; her Russian accent was hard enough to understand as it was.

  He nodded and gestured to the laptop sitting on the counter. She pulled up the sales for the day, grunted in satisfaction, and then reached into the pocket of her shapeless, faded dress for five one-hundred-dollar bills. Joe wondered why she never wore anything besides those old dresses and tacky scarves. But he wasn’t about to ask questions of anyone who paid up the way she did. He was going to ride this gravy train and hope it never stopped.

  The cat hissed as he pocketed the money, and Joe was tempted to hiss back. But the old gal doted on the scrawny thing, so he merely nodded and left.

  A month later, Joe was considering moving to a better apartment. He’d already updated his wardrobe, his computer, and his cell phone. As he drove to one of his favorite sports bars, the thought of a new car entered his thoughts. Nothing flashy—not like some guy going through a mid-life crisis. Something classy. Maybe a Mercedes or BMW. He’d go ahead and get one with a sunroof.

  The bartender slid him a Heineken as he sat, and Joe grinned. He was just deciding he’d stop at the BMW dealer first when a guy in his mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a blazer, plunked down on the stool next to him.

  Joe was trying to remember whether he’d talked to him already, when the man said, “There’s a problem with that program you sold me.”

  Well, that settled that question. Joe put a puzzled look on his face and asked, “What sort of problem? Haven’t your sales increased?”

  The man barked out a short laugh. “Oh, sales are up, all right. But it turns out that thing is far too good at ‘making new connections,’ as you put it. Some of my business is cash only, and now those files are integrated with the ones I show the IRS.”

  Joe swallowed. “Ah. Well, have you canceled? Then it should just be a case of deleting the files you don’t want.”

  The man’s blue eyes grew hard. “Of course I canceled. But the files won’t delete. And every time I try to write new files, they turn back into the old ones. Even if I input them on another computer.”

  Joe blinked and thought furiously. “Well, as you know, I’m in sales, not development. But I’ll have a word with our resident geeks and see if we can find a way to solve your problem.” The old lady hardly qualified as a computer nerd, but she was all he had.

  “You do that.” The guy put down his drink, then pulled open his jacket to show a pistol tucked into his belt. “Give me your number. And don’t make me come looking for you. I want this problem solved, and I want my money back. Now.”

  Joe reached into his wallet and pulled out three hundred dollars. He folded the bills and handed them over. You had to be alive to spend it later.

  The man nodded before standing up again. “Okay, that just bought you twenty-four hours. But I want this to go away. Make it happen.”

  Joe ran a hand through his hair as the man walked away. He looked so harmless, too. Just another wannabe rich guy, searching for his shortcut to the good life. Joe left his beer and drove to see the old lady.

  He explained the situation as his boss stroked her cat. She pursed her lips. “So he pay for more connection, and now he no want. Should know what he want when he ask for it. No good blame me if he want wrong thing.”

  Joe was in no mood for a philosophical discussion. “Look, he had a gun.”

  She shrugged. “I have gun.” She reached under the counter and laid a nine millimeter on top.

  Joe shook his head. She just didn’t seem like the type. “Yeah, except he was ready to shoot me with his.”

  His boss reached under the counter again and brought out a CD. “Tell him put this on computer, and it will stop problem. This stop connection. That what he want, yes?”

  Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. So I can tell him this will fix it, right? Everything will be back the way it was before?”

  The old woman frowned. “Now want like it was before. You sure? No ask for what you no want.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I want,” Joe said. Maybe he should get this thing copied, in case he had any other unsatisfied customers.

  The gal even gave him his three hundred back before he left, and Joe was feeling much better about life. Every start-up was bound to have some problems. And it wasn’t as though the guy had actually pulled the gun on him. An uninstall disk meant Joe could continue to sell, and that was a very good thing. This was so much better than selling cars.

  He called his client and dropped the disk by his business, a tiny office in the warehouse district, not too far from the old lady’s building. Any further from downtown, and the guy would be out in the cow pastures.

  The next morning, perhaps inspired by that thought, he made several sales downtown. Parking was a hassle, but the sheer concentration of people looking for a quick way to make a buck made it worthwhile. He was opening his car door when he saw the same client from yesterday across the street.

  “How’d that disk work?” Joe called over the traffic.

  The man’s face turned ugly, and Joe lost no time getting in his car. He pulled away, tires squealing, just as the window on the driver’s side shattered.

  “Son of a─” The car slid alarmingly as he took a corner. The look of fear on a skateboarder’s face was small recompense for what was rapidly becoming a terrible day. A glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the guy’s red Mustang had managed to get within two car lengths.

  Joe headed south, running stop signs with abandon. He’d love to get pulled over right now. An old lady with a walker flipped him the bird as he screeched around another corner.

A train barricade started lowering ahead. Perfect. Joe swerved into the oncoming lane and made it across just ahead of the train. The sharp blast of the horn made him jump, and he stomped on the accelerator all the way up the onramp. At least on the freeway, he wouldn’t have to worry about pedestrians.

  He kept an eye on the traffic behind him, but there was no Mustang. He exited and worked his way south, still in the clear. He definitely needed to talk to the old lady. Getting shot at was not part of his job description.

  He pulled into the lot and sat frozen in disbelief before he remembered to turn off the car. He yanked open the door and ran to the open lot, where only yesterday the tacky little office had been.

  All that was left were a series of giant bird tracks leading into the fields.