Free Deadline Y2K by Mark Joseph Page A

years since Marie had gone off her rocker and joined a Christian cult in Arizona. The previous year his son Eddie, at age eighteen, had declared himself a Luddite, antimachine, anticomputer and antibusiness, and had taken his trust fund and run away to Los Angeles. As it was, Copeland had discovered he preferred living alone with Micro and Old Blue, two creatures that were capable of unconditional love.
    He sighed, opened his ex-wife’s e-mail and braced himself for the onslaught.
    â€œDoomsday is here,” her message began. “The Millennium arrives tonight and with it the beginning of the thousand-year reign of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Only the righteous will be saved. The world as you know it will end tomorrow. Those who worship false gods will tremble before the Lord on Judgment Day. Give it up, Donald. Turn to Jesus.”
    He didn’t need any fruitcake, wacko shit this morning, no way. Christ, the religious right had had a field day for months, extracting every bit of mileage from millennium doom and destruction, and the irony was that they had no idea how right they were. The millennium was a big deal, but not the kind these goofballs imagined. Thank you, Marie, and good-bye.
    Life, he thought, would be simple if you just got rid of all the people who were stuck on fixed ideas and absurd superstitions and thought they had all the answers. Computers were much better; they did what they were told and didn’t preach.
    A thoroughly modern man, Copeland had developed the compartmentalization of his mind into a fine art. Guilt was neatly imprisoned in one lobe at the back of his brain where it couldn’t hinder his business, and the love he’d known in his life was buried somewhere nearby. He didn’t know why his kid was a Luddite or his ex-wife a religious nut; he knew only that they’d disappointed him, rejected his values—but not his money—and left him to pursue his cold passion alone. They were like an airplane crash on the Marshall Islands, a distant disturbance to be ignored.
    Before leaving the house, he left an electronic note for the housekeeper to order dog food. He ran a quick scan of the security system, making sure windows and doors were locked tight, and said good-bye to Old Blue and Micro. Family business taken care of, he went down to the garage to drive to work.
    *   *   *
    The Porsche burbled quietly down 85th Street to Broadway where Copeland parked in a red zone in front of Bernie’s.
    â€œIf it isn’t the king of the yuppies in person,” Packard said as Copeland sat down.
    â€œYou’ve been cracking wise with the same shit for ten years, Bill.”
    â€œYou gonna eat?” Bernie hollered.
    â€œNot today, Bernie.”
    â€œThen what makes you think you can park in my red zone? Ed, give him a ticket.”
    â€œI should,” the policeman said. “You gonna save the world tonight, Donnie?”
    â€œNope, but I’m gonna save a shitload of banks.”
    â€œYou hope.”
    â€œYou pays your money and takes your chances, right? Hey, I heard from Marie. The world is gonna end tonight. Be aware.”
    â€œShe’s right,” Garcia said. “You’ve been saying it for years. Bill sent his wife and kids to Maine.”
    â€œDid they go?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Copeland turned to Spillman and asked, “Did Shirley leave?”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Shaking his head, Spillman stood up. “I gotta go run my store. See you guys.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” Packard said. “Let’s grab a cab.”
    Copeland and Garcia remained at the table, and Copeland contemplated his old friend who would become his enemy in an instant if he knew the truth.
    â€œWe’re malingering,” Copeland said with a grin. “Is that against the law?”
    â€œDonnie, if I didn’t know you for forty years, I’d think you were a real asshole. As it is, I know you