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sa_matt | goggleddgam3r96
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PLEASE NOTE THAT ACCESS TO THIS FILE IS RESTRICTED TO PERSONNEL WITH LEVEL FOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE. CONTINUING WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION WILL RESULT IN DISCIPLINARY ACTION, UP TO AND INCLUDING IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF LIFE.
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Matt sighed. He has only been at this new job for a week, and already the authentication procedures have become tedious to him. Without looking at the keys, he re-entered the information.
sa_matt | goggledggamer96
WARNING
[INCORRECT AUTHENTICATION: YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO ENTER THE CORRECT AUTHENTICATION, OR SECURITY WILL BE SUMMONED TO YOUR LOCATION.]
The sudden error beep from the computer made Matt jerk in his seat. "Shit," he grumbled, "a typo?" He hurriedly tapped the credentials.
sa_matt | goggleddgamer96
WARNING: INCORRECT AUTHENTICATION
"Still wrong?!" He panicked, studying the screen. "...Oh shit, 3 not e. God damn it."
sa_matt | goggleddgam3r96
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Matt sighed with relief and slumped back in the seat. False credentials are no laughing matter in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.
369-705-1429-015
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Matt turned to the camera.
[INCORRECT ORIENTATION. PLEASE ALIGN THE PUPILS OF YOUR EYES WITH THE GUIDELINES INDICATED ON THE SECONDARY SCREEN AND TRY AGAIN.]
"..." Matt blinked. "Oh, right." He quickly took off his goggles, placing them on the table.
[THANK YOU. THE TIME AND DATE OF YOUR ACCESS TO THIS FILE HAS BEEN LOGGED AND REPORTED TO THE RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION (RAISA).]
USER NAME: S.A. Matt
TITLE: Junior Supervising Programmer
DISPLAYING 369-705-1429-015, CLEARANCE LEVEL 4
"Finally!" Matt rubbed his eyes and reached for the coffee mug near the computer. It was already cold.
Alone in his cubicle, the redhead began researching the file that had been sent to him. His eyes skimmed the pages of words: an underground organization, informally nicknamed the "Manhattan Mafia," has been gaining ground recently by participating in various illegal trades and auctions on the black market. Particularly, the selling and buying of incredibly undervalued stocks, which are almost always guaranteed to shoot up in price - from 50% to 300%.
This was Matt's specialty.
The deep web is a galaxy of untouchable - well, mostly untouchable - websites whose IP addresses bounce off countless routers, making them the perfect tool for illegal internet activity. Matt knew this better than anyone, considering his involvement with the deep web landed him this job, but that's another story for another time.
For now, it was trying to locate and infiltrate this mafia group, by any means necessary. Matt cracked his knuckles and began to type.
-New York City, 11:38 am-
The familiar sound of the lunch hour rush drifted through the streets of New York. Businesspeople and families alike, rushing here and there, constantly drifted past the inconspicuous ice cream parlor on the street corner. Occasionally, a child would pull their parents inside by the sleeve, demanding a mint chocolate cone.
A quirky blonde girl would happily give the child a cone and a smile. But of course, this ice cream parlor was not really an ice cream parlor.
A metal door slid open to reveal a large, telekill plated office. "Hey boss, I'm placing another order for Polar Bear Tracks and Beary Berry - just letting you know," the girl in the Polar Parlor apron, adorned with a standing cartoon polar bear holding an ice cream cone, said to the young man who was on the office phone.
The phone receiver was covered with a leather-gloved hand. "Elli, how many times did I tell you that you don't need to keep asking about the ice cream stuff?"
Elli shrugged, "I dunno, but that last time Mike ordered 18 pounds of cookie dough ice cream got you pretty mad, so I just wanted to keep you in the loop."
The young man, known to his allies as Mello, sighed and shooed Elli away with his hand. He returned to his phone call. On the other end of the line, the gruff voice of a customer continued the conversation.
"Are you certain of the timeline?" The voice inquired.
Mello nodded to the virtual prescience, "Yes. As it stands, a list of ticker symbols will be sent to you in 4 hours, give or take ten minutes."
There was a pause on the line, and then, "...And these purchases will result in capital gains?"
"I guarantee it personally, my friend." Mello unwrapped a chocolate bar, "in 4 hours you will receive the stocks, and in 24 you will be rich." With this, the blond hung up and walked over to the wall. Then he walked over to the door, locked it, thrice, and returned to the wall again. Sliding his hand over the surface, he waited patiently for the keypad to emerge.
2-1-2-1-0-6-6-3-9
The keypad beeped, but nothing happened. A prompt to continue.
5-3-4-3-0-5-4-2-5-1-2-1-9
Upon entering the second combination, a small camera emerged. Mello allowed it to scan his eyes. At last, with a gust of air, a small safe opened up. Mello checked the door again before taking out the contents of the safe, the only thing inside being a wrinkled newspaper.
Placing it on his desk, he skimmed the front page. The date read "May 14, 2015." The title read "The New York Times." Of course, the date on this day was not May 14, but instead May 13. And the issue of the Times from today's date was already distributed to the public. But this issue was the only one of its kind, for now, and it was in Mello's possession.
Ignoring the current events of the day - or rather, of tomorrow - he immediately flipped to the Business Day page. The NASDAQ was down by 0.93%, the S&P 500 by 0.71%. 'Not good,' he thought, scanning the page for positive numbers. And there it was: Crude oil up 1%, and natural gas up 3%.
The Euro was trading much higher than yesterday - or rather, today - and the US dollar was up half a cent! This was enough. Mello's clients would be satisfied.
-Toronto, 1:28 pm-
Matt fidgeted with his suit jacket, pulling the blazer's cuffs back as far as they could go. He had never worn a suit before, and this one was much too big for him. His hands were often not fully visible behind the sleeves.
The conference room slowly filled with executives, pantsuits and ties and golden cufflinks lined the rectangular table. Matt stood awkwardly at the front of the room, a projector illuminating a screen behind him. He watched as the older men and women shot him weird glances, practically hearing their thoughts.
'This is the new agent?' 'He's the one who got this case?' 'He's young enough to be my grandson, what's the meaning of this?' 'Management has lost its marbles.'
Of course, no one actually said this, but Matt was prone to anxiety-inducing evaluations of situations. It was a bad habit; he was trying to get rid of it.
At exactly 1:30, Matt cleared his throat and a presentation started up behind him.
"H-hello everyone," he began, fiddling with the presentation clicker in his hands. "As you probably know, I'm the new recruit... assigned to the M-015 case. My name is Matt, and no, before you ask, I don't have a last name... sorry." The slides changed behind him. "Anyway, I've been asked to brief you on this case so if you have any questions, feel free to ask."
A hand shot up and a skinny woman in a dark blue blazer spoke up, "By which criteria were you assigned to this case? Where were you transferred from, anyway?" There were some nods in agreement around the table.
Matt blinked. "...Um, I'm actually not authorized to reveal that information. Sorry. May I continue?"
The woman made a face of disgust. Matt took that as a 'yes.'
"So," he continued, "here is what we know. The organization, a crime syndicate code-named Manhattan Mafia and hereby referred to as 'the mafia' or 'the group,' operates primarily in New York, although there are indications that their reach extends far beyond the United States. We are not yet aware of any members, but we estimate there to be at least ten operating in the New York base and a network of up to one hundred operating in other parts of the world. They have been on the radar for a couple of years, but this year saw a spike in illegal activity which is why the group is now a priority for CSIS, the CIA and the FBI. Interpol is keeping an eye on the situation as well."
A balding man from the back of the table raised his hand. "They've been known in the past for Blacknet drug trafficking - is this still the case?"
Matt's eye twitched, "Actually it's the DARKnet." He shook his head, "and no, although they are probably still engaged in narcotics trading, this time the case is insider trading."
Someone else in the room shouted out, "You mean like stock market stuff?"
"Exactly," Matt said, changing the slide again, "they possess insider information, which they sell to their clients. This information consists of certain stocks, exchange traded funds, commodities, or bonds, which are undervalued and will increase by a varying amount of basis points within 24 hours."
Matt looked out at the gaggle of blank faces in front of him.
"Um... To simplify: let's say Apple stock is trading at $120 today. Following?" Matt waited until everyone nodded. "This group receives inside information that tomorrow the stock will trade at $190. This is quite a spike, right? If you owned 1,000 shares of Apple stock, you'd make $70,000 overnight! That's what happens. The clients receive a collection of stock names, which they buy while the price is low, and then sell immediately after the spike. Make sense?"
There was a murmuring among the attendees. A man sitting at the front of the table scratched his head and said, "People get rich from stocks all the time, don't they..? Can't these just be flukes by lucky people?"
Matt shook his head, "Absolutely not. These are the same people, consistently, winning out against the market index. People have tried for years and years, ever since the stock market was born, to predict prices. It's impossible. Stocks are forecasted along what's called a 'random walk;' meaning 'impossible to predict with any accuracy.' Additionally, those that have been taken in under suspicion of insider trading all say the same thing: I got an anonymous phone call and someone told me to buy these stocks."
"But how can they be getting this information?" Asked a grey-haired woman with a bewildered look on her face.
"That," Matt said, "is what I am trying to figure out."
-A couple of months ago, New York City-
It was a cold January afternoon when Mello found The Newspaper.
Although primarily a criminal by trade, Mello always had a knack for investigating. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he was brought up, but that is another story for another time. Those detective skills were quickly recognized by clients and allies alike, and it offered Mello no lack of interesting cases to solve.
On this day, he sat across a few people who were seated on a dark red leather sofa. This was in a previous location, before the Polar Parlor base was established, and instead of heavy metal, the walls were a comforting wood. The sofa was occupied by a thin African-American woman, her heavy and stout companion, a lanky young man with a redneck look on his face, and an old rugged man. Their names, respectively, were Rochelle, Coach, Ellis, and Bill. Four New York natives who had a problem and had heard that Mello might be able to solve it.
"This guy said the Red Sox would lose the game - and then they did!" Rochelle said, visibly angry. "I lost on the bets 'cause of course no one would bet against! It's bad for my business."
Bill chimed in, "The creep told me ma corn farm would burn to th'ground. I told 'im he was a whackjob but then ya wouldn't believe it," he shook his head, "on the next day, all ma corn was burnt to a crisp."
Mello listened attentively, occasionally nodding his head.
"I done seen him in the 7-11." Ellis recalled his story, "he looked at me with them kooky eyes and says 'I know which ticket is gonna win' and picked one out."
"Let me guess; he won?" Mello asked.
Ellis nodded in response. "He claims he can see the future. Crazy."
"We ain't the only ones pissed off by this," Coach added. "This guy needs to go."
A half hour later, Mello had the office to himself. He paced the floor, thinking about the details given to him. He knew who they were talking about - a short, old man, who lived on a hill in the suburbs of Albany, nicknamed Wacky Wally. Rumours were that he was insane, but these new revelations were intriguing. Having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, Mello grabbed his coat and set off to investigate.
The snow had finally stopped falling when Mello reached the small shack on the hill. The place unmistakably belonged to a crazy person. There were eight scarecrows on the front lawn as well as years' worth of leaves, weeds, and trash. Mello walked around the perimeter of the house, looking for a possible way inside. The front door was locked with a giant padlock - an indication that the crazy man wasn't home. The windows were all boarded up from the inside. The cellar door was shut tight.
Mello sighed. The only way in was the chimney.
Although fit, Mello still had a difficult time climbing up to the roof due to the old plywood ravaging him with splinters. Finally at the chimney, he peered down. It was maybe a 15 foot drop - if he was careful, he could slide down slowly without incident.
But he was not careful.
"Oof!" Mello hit the pile of wood in the fireplace with a loud thud. Getting up carefully, he looked around to make sure no one was in the house to hear him. Hearing only the silence of the empty house in response, Mello began to search. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was certain that he found something valuable when his eyes landed on a newspaper laying on the coffee table. What caught his attention was the date: it was tomorrow's. He picked it up.
The headline read 'French satire magazine - Charlie Hebdo - under attack: artists killed by terrorists.' Further down on the page was an article on the strife in Ukraine, then something about Pope Francis. He turned the page. An analysis of the Ebola crisis in Africa, a sports column about football, a crossword. There was an article about a London orphanage that burnt down from a stray bolt of lightning. He turned to the third page.
"Fire on the hilltops of Albany: One man dead" was the title on the page. Underneath was a picture of the burnt wreckage of a house and Mello recognized the front yard immediately. It was this house.
Mello nearly jumped when he heard the padlock clicking open. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the newspaper, stuffed it in his coat, and hid in the closet. He watched through a small crack as the front door swung open and the man known as Wacky Wallace stepped inside. He was muttering to himself.
"Ain't no way I'm dyin' tonight." Wally walked into the living room and Mello could see that he was holding a box of matches. "I know I can't control fate, O Holy One," Wally said, raising his hands high into the air. "This house will burn down, it will, but I won't be the one dyin'..!" He laughed like a cartoon villain and began pacing the room. "Any minute now the FedEx man'll be here, and I'll make sure he never leaves."
Mello held his breath. This man was indeed crazy - plotting a murder because of a newspaper? Just then, his eyes widened in terror.
"And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive."
His cell phone was ringing. Before he could even reach into his pocket to shut the thing off, the closet door was nearly ripped off by Wally.
His voice boomed with fury, "WHO. ARE. YOU?!"
Mello opened his mouth to speak but couldn't think of an appropriate answer.
Wally suddenly backed down. "Wait... This is perfect... Now I don't even have to wait for the FedEx guy!" With a mighty force, he pushed Mello back and slammed the closet door shut, pushing a chair up against it.
'Oh shit,' thought Mello, trying to push the door open. It wouldn't budge.
"Oh happy day!" Wally laughed again, and Mello could hear the striking of a match.
'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,' pushing against the door with all his might, Mello's mind was racing with thoughts. How could he escape? His thoughts were interrupted by an irritating tickle against his stomach. 'Of course - the paper!' He pulled the newspaper out of his coat hastily and knocked against the door loudly.
"Hey old man!" Mello shouted, as fire began to fill the house. "You might not wanna leave yet!"
Wally, who was already at the front door, turned around. "What? Shut up and accept your fate!"
Mello coughed from the smoke, but shouted loud enough for Wally to hear, "Oh yeah? You're gonna leave me burning in here with your fortune-telling newspaper?"
Wally stopped dead in his tracks. He ran to the coffee table, flipping it over. "My paper! You TOOK IT?!"
"Indeed I did, I have it right here." Mello crinkled the pages a bit for Wally to hear. The living room was already ablaze and the lack of open windows made it very hard to breathe.
"GIVE IT BACK!" Wally bellowed, stomping to the closet and avoiding the flames.
"Well I can't unless you open the door, isn't that right?" As he said this, Mello was already preparing his next move. He quietly removed a coat hanger from the upper rack and untwisted it.
Wally was furious. The heat from the flames and his anger were impairing his judgment. He quickly moved aside the chair that was blocking the closet door and that split second was all that Mello needed. The blond kicked open the door and in a single move, the sharp bronze end of the coat hanger impaled Wally through the chest.
The fire spread to the wooden walls. Hearing the creaking of the foundation, Mello quickly pushed aside the astonished old man and ran for the door. Clutching the newspaper under his arm, he jumped out of the house. As soon as he was on the lawn, the building collapsed in a fiery heap.
Mello fell to the ground in a coughing fit. The flames enveloped the shack so fast that Wally didn't have time to scream. Looking at the newspaper, Mello got up slowly; inhaling the oxygen so deeply that he felt his lungs would burst. And, without another glance at the house, he made his way down the hill. It would be hours before the fire department was notified.
This was how The Newspaper made its way into Mello's hands. Over the next couple of weeks, he would carefully study the newspaper and then read the corresponding news. It was never wrong. Mello had no idea how it worked. At 8:00 in the morning, Eastern Time, if you were watching the pages, the typewritten words would disintegrate and re-appear. The date rearranged itself into that of the following day.
Now, a person could do great things with the future in their hands. One could become famous as a fortune teller, or a prophet. One could try to prevent terrible things by warning the world of events to come. One could simply sit back and watch.
Mello? Well, he chose to make money.
The business column, the stock market, the index. It would also change day-by-day. Every businessman's dream come true: knowing tomorrow's stock prices.
-Present day, Toronto, 3:31 pm-
Matt was tired. He spent an hour answering questions in the conference room, and then another hour answering questions in his office. As soon as he was alone, the phone rang and he had to answer more questions. By the end of it all, he was so drained that he had even forgotten to eat lunch.
Getting up from his desk, Matt grabbed his wallet and exited the building. In the nearest trash can, he dumped the suit jacket and then headed towards the Tim Horton's down the street.
Waiting in the lineup, Matt started hatching his plan. He had to find a way to get into contact with someone from the elusive mafia group and figure out how in the world they were getting their information. Although not great, Matt had an idea. A businessman, CEO of Johnson & Johnson, had recently made incredible capital gain on his portfolio. Matt suspected it was because of an underground informant.
"Four cheese bagel with butter please, toasted." Matt said to the cashier, "and a small Iced Cap." Paying the Indian woman at the cash register, he went over to the side to wait for his food.
If he could tap into the phone lines of the CEO, there was a chance he could overhear the guy bragging about the stock information he got. Hopefully, it would be enough to point Matt in the right direction. He knew the chances were slim. He'd have to wait hours, maybe days, for the guy to say something of interest.
Taking the bagel and coffee, Matt made his way to a window-side table and sat down. He wondered how many more people would exploit this trading system in the time it took him to track down information. It was frustrating.
Then suddenly; "Catherine, I'm telling you, invest in Alibaba. I promise you won't regret it."
Matt turned his head ever so slightly toward a couple sitting on his left – a tall man in a collared shirt and tie was sitting across from an older woman with a purple shawl. The man's voice was hushed, and Matt had to strain to hear him.
The woman presumably named Catherine sipped her coffee, "Again with the Chinese Google site, John? I told you, I'm not interested in gambling with those foreign stocks. Who knows what those Asians are doing."
The man presumably named John had a desperate look on his face. "No I'm telling you, it isn't a gamble!" His voice quieted down even more, "Can't you just trust me? The stock will spike, I'm certain of it this time."
Catherine adjusted her glasses and sighed. "Fine, I'll read some analyst reports after lunch, maybe I'll look into it with my broker tomorrow."
"No, not tomorrow!" John had to forcefully keep his voice down, looking around suspiciously. Matt quickly lowered his gaze to his drink, pretending to be on his phone. John dropped to a near whisper, "Catherine, please. You have to buy the stock today."
The woman looked agitated as she put her coffee down forcefully. "What's really going on, John? You're beginning to sound like a crazy person."
There was a pause. "…Catherine. You must've heard along the grapevine about all those people getting rich from short-selling stocks after receiving an anonymous phone call, right?"
Catherine nodded slowly. Matt was nearly on the edge of his seat.
"Well," John continued hesitantly, "…I got a phone call."
The woman gasped quietly, covering her mouth. "No… You're telling me you—"
"Yes, for the past two weeks I've been in contact with colleagues who knew people that got rich from on the TSX. They put me through to some site in the deep web and I had to pre-pay a lot of money. I was so afraid of a scam, but then this morning, I got the call!"
Matt couldn't believe his luck. All he needed was one more clue.
Catherine chose her next words very carefully; "John… Does anyone else know about this?"
The man shook his head quickly. "Just you! I was very careful. I used the Onion Router and everything. All I had to do was search for something on the black market, and the forum section led me to the right page! No tracks left behind: I paid everything in coin!"
At this point, Matt tuned them out. 'Jackpot,' was the only thought in his mind as he quickly finished the bagel and hurried out of the café. With a surge of new energy, he was back at his computer in less than ten minutes.
Setting up TOR, otherwise known as the Onion Router, was a relatively easy task for Matt. The virtual browser acted as an invisibility cloak for internet users – you were essentially untraceable on the net because your computer's address bounced off international browsers so many times that it was nearly impossible to track.
Nearly impossible.
Matt had at his disposable a full arsenal of security software and hardware, provided to him by his employers. And although internet activity was impossible to trace through TOR, there was one piece of the puzzle that no one can cover up completely: payment.
The virtual currency, coin, is protected by layers and layers of encryption, keeping the buyers and sellers of illegal merchandise safe from prying eyes. However, since at some point the virtual currency must be linked to real currency (after all, no one would accept imaginary money, right?), a momentary crack in the protection opens up.
Using site crawling software, Matt searched the forums of the deep web's black market for relevant keywords. Upon locating a trace of a couple of payees, he was able to follow the path of the money through the net. Within three and a half hours, he had the coordinates to a location.
-The next day, New York City, 8:31 am-
In the dim light of the morning shining through the blinds, Mello sat in his office, counting his money. Yes, this was a cliché of course, but he was a stickler for details and thus kept rigorous records of every transaction. His personal motto was 'trust no one but yourself.'
The system he had developed was brilliant to say the least. Upon taking the Newspaper into his possession, it took Mello less than a day to come up with the idea of using the future stock prices as a way to make money. Certainly, he spent a few days testing its accuracy. Like clockwork, the words on the grey pages foretold the coming events of the day to a T. The news were accurate as of 8:00 in the morning of the date under the heading.
With the curiosity of a scientist, Mello had tested the limits of the Newspaper.
He kept the folded sheet of tests in the safe along with the Newspaper itself.
After having figured out the time constraint, Mello began to map out how to properly exploit the future's information. He would enlist others to buy the stocks from the paper on the day before the paper's date. Overnight the prices would change, and by 8:00 am they will have always hit the target price documented on the page.
The next step was figuring out how to profit from this. Surely, he could have simply bought and sold the stocks himself, profiting from the capital gains. But this was too easy. Instead, every other day, he would sell the information. Bit by bit. For enormous prices.
Why every other day? Because the following day, he would reinvest the money from his clients into the largest spiking stocks himself. By reinvesting credited money, he was essentially making a profit from nothing. And the profit was huge.
Within a month of starting this plan, Mello had bought him and his team a brand new base, in the heart of New York. This building, although aptly hidden from plain sight, was huge. It descended 15 floors beneath the surface, and was decked out with the newest technological advancements. Not to mention, the money also funded the ice cream shop, which served as a perfect disguise.
On top of the new location, Mello had also given generous gifts to the members of his team. His immediate colleagues were not many, and had become sort of a makeshift family. There was Elli, the girl who took care of protection measures and finances. As such, she was in charge of upholding the group's disguise and most of their accounting. Since her early teenage years, she wished to run an ice cream parlor – and Mello granted this wish.
For Mike, Mello's right-hand man, public transport was his means of getting around. Often this created problems due to delays and crowding. As a solution, Mello got him a car.
Similar gifts were granted for the others, such as Nick, who received a week-long prepaid vacation to Mexico, and Lucy, whom he bought a pet-friendly apartment and a puppy. Mello never accepted any gifts in return.
Now, as he sat in his office, counting his money, there was a knock on the door.
"Hey," Elli's voice sounded through the metal, "can I come in?"
Mello put the money aside, unlocking the door with a button under his desk. "What's up?"
Elli looked excited but confused. "Um, well… There's a kid out there, in the Parlor. He said he wants a job. He's very cute; I think he'd make a good addition. Plus I could use some help! Mike has fucking butterfingers and I can't trust Luce around kids. You know."
Mello raised an eyebrow. "…What did you tell him?"
"I said to wait there and that I'd go get the hiring manager from the back," she smiled.
"We have a hiring manager?" Mello inquired, to which Elli laughed.
"Yes, it's you. Can you go talk to him? Please please please please?" She put her palms together, "With a very beary cherry on top?"
Mello sighed, but he couldn't say no to that. "Fine, I'll go. But for the future, don't include me in your ice cream matters."
-Earlier that day, New York City, 7:56 am-
Matt had taken the plane from Toronto Pearson to the JFK New York airport the very same night he found the address. Catching the 3:00 am flight, he hadn't slept all night, running off the adrenaline of his first job as a CSIS agent.
Having no suitcase, Matt left the airport in a hurry, carrying only a backpack with a computer and some clothes. He hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address he had scribbled on a post-it note. When the cab stopped in front of the Polar Parlor, Matt asked why.
"This is address ya gave me, kid. That'll be $60." The cabbie held out his hand, waiting for the cash.
Matt blinked, looking out the window to the pinkish purple ice cream parlor with a couple of white patio chairs and tables, adorned with pink-embroidered snowflake tablecloths.
"This… can't be the right place…"
The cabbie rolled his eyes, "The longer you make me idle here, the more I'll charge ya."
"O-oh, sorry," Matt took out three twenties and a five, handing it to the driver and stepping out of the car, which immediately drove away.
He stood in front of the parlor for a few minutes, trying to figure out his mistake. 'Did I spell something wrong? Did I get a false address? Were the coordinates messed up?'
His thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of the bells above the door as it opened. Elli stepped outside, flipping over the sign that said, 'I know it's unBEARable, but we're closed!' to the other side, which said, 'Don't be biPOLAR – come on in!'
"Hey kiddo," she smiled at Matt, "do you want ice cream so bad that you were waiting for me to open?"
Matt fumbled with the straps of his bag, "U-um, no, I…" He tried to gather his thoughts, noticing the emptiness of the parlor behind Elli. "I'm… actually looking for a job..! Are you hiring?" He figured he might as well investigate the area, in case the address was indeed correct. Maybe the base was nearby? Maybe underground?
"A job, huh?" Elli pondered this, putting a hand to her chin. "Well, I suppose I could use the help. Do you have any experience in the service industry, hon?"
Matt grinned, "I'm a quick learner."
Elli laughed, holding the door open. "Okay, come inside and I'll see what I can do." She went over to the counter, leaning against it. "My name is Elise, by the way. But you can call me Elli. What's your name?"
"I'm Matt," he said, admiring the interior décor. "Do you own this place?"
"Yep, the Polar Parlor is my pride and joy." She pushed a few stray locks of hair behind her ear in a proud gesture. "You like it?"
Matt nodded. He looked around the shop – the walls were decorated with paintings of an arctic landscape and silver snowflakes hung from the ceiling by invisible strings. The counter featured the Parlor's mascot, an anthropomorphized polar bear named Pecan. This bear was also on the front of Elli's pink apron, which she wore over a light purple dress whose buttons barely held together over her giant boo—
"So what makes you want to work at an ice cream shop, Matt?" She tilted her head slightly.
"Well I've always liked ice cream…" he said, "There was this one place near my old orphanage where I would go whenever I was lonely, and the owners would always give me a free cone of their freshest flavor!"
Elli's heart spilled over with emotion as she put a hand to her chest, "Oh… That's so sweet. I'll let you in on a little secret: I like to give out some free ice cream sometimes… You never know when people really need that."
Matt smiled, "I'm sure you made many customers very happy!" The story about the ice cream shop was a blatant lie. Matt wasn't even sure if there were any stand-alone parlors in London, but a sad anecdote never hurt anyone.
Elli suddenly clapped her hands together. "Alright! You wait here Matt, I'll go check with… the… hiring manager! Be back in a jiffy~!" With that, Elli disappeared behind the 'Staff Only' door.
Alone in the room, Matt looked around. He wandered to the tables, then went behind the counter, looking over the ice cream flavors, each named with a polar bear related pun. Just then, the bells of the front door chimed.
A little girl holding the hand of what Matt presumed was her father ran into the parlor. She pressed her hands against the glass of the display, inspecting the ice cream.
She looked up at Matt and furrowed her brows. "Who are you? Where's Elli?"
"She's in the back," he replied, "Can I get you something? I'm… possibly the new employee."
"Oh… Okay!" The girl pulled her dad to the counter. "I want the Polar Bear Tracks, daddy."
The man nodded at Matt, "Just one of those in a cone, please."
"No problem," Matt took the opportunity to ask some questions while he scooped the ice cream. "So are you Elli's frequent customers?"
"We are," the man said. "She's such a nice girl. Sometimes I worry though, I notice she gives a lot of her products away for free, and there are often charity events that she hosts, with free ice cream. Not to mention the long winters lately…"
Matt plopped the ice cream into a cone, wrapping it with a napkin. "You're saying this place may be going bankrupt…?"
The man chuckled, "I always thought we might come by one day to see a 'foreclosed' sign on the door. But it never happens. I guess she's really good at budgeting."
'Interesting. So the Polar Parlor possibly has a second stream of income…' Matt thought, as he handed the ice cream cone to the girl.
"Say 'thank you,' Lizzy," the man put some change on the counter.
"Thank you!" The girl took the cone and skipped out of the store.
"Take care," the man tipped his hat, "say 'hi' to Elli for me."
Matt nodded, "will do!" and watched as the two of them left the parlor. He looked at the money on the counter, then at the cash register. Unsure of how to use it, he just pushed the coins aside. He walked over to the other side of the room, to a large corkboard hanging from the opposite wall.
In cut-out block letters, the words 'Community Corner' were taped to the top of the board. Many papers were pinned onto the corkboard with tacs, ranging from an adoption drive at a local animal shelter to a food bank fundraiser to a cancer drive marathon. There were also various drawings, brought in by young customers, of the polar bear mascot, as well as a few of, presumably, Elli.
Matt smiled a bit to himself – there was no way this place was involved in illegal activity. Elli was obviously a kindred spirit. Perhaps she was getting the money to run the shop through other means: maybe she got a large inheritance or won the lottery. Either way, the place he was looking for was not here.
He would have to investigate around the area but in the meantime, he might as well make some extra money. He didn't bring too much with him to New York, thinking he wouldn't need to stay long. He hadn't considered a mistake in his research.
As Matt continued to read the community flyers, Elli came out from behind the staff door.
"Hey, I'm back!" She made her way towards Matt. Behind her was a young man, around her age but a bit older, with blond hair that fell to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. "I brought the hiring manager!" She smiled, patting the other on the back.
Matt looked up. He was much shorter than this 'hiring manager,' and a bit intimidated by the fierce look in his eyes. "Um… Hello, I'm Matt."
"…Hello, Matt," the man said holding a hand out, "I'm Mello."
To be continued…