Free Deadline Y2K by Mark Joseph Page B

are but I don’t care. You’re famous. People write about you in the Times. You eat lunch with the mayor. You’re smart and you’re rich, but when the lights go out tonight, you’ll be in the dark the same as everyone else.”
    â€œThink so?”
    â€œHell yes.”
    â€œBet you a million dollars you’re wrong.”
    â€œI don’t have a million dollars.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll bet you ten bucks.”
    â€œFuck you. What’s really going to happen?”
    â€œNobody knows, Ed. Nobody really knows.”
    Garcia stood, settled his elegant policeman’s cap on his head, paid Bernie, and added a generous tip that Copeland matched.
    â€œYou didn’t eat,” the deli owner protested. “What’s this for?”
    â€œHappy New Year,” Copeland said and followed Garcia out onto the sidewalk. The captain scowled at the traffic flowing by in an orderly fashion and the people walking up and down at a normal, rapid pace. Pigeons fluttered and litter swirled in a mild breeze.
    â€œThe calm before the storm,” Garcia said. “What’s really going to happen in our town, Donnie?”
    â€œThere’ll be a run on the banks this afternoon,” Copeland said. “It’s been building for days, but today will look like 1929.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œIf Con Edison has its act together and the power stays on, we’ll be okay, but the subway system will die. The railroads will stop running because their control systems will crash, but they already know that. The water mains should be okay.”
    â€œStop. I get the picture.”
    â€œIt will be much worse in other places. New York will survive,” Copeland said, opening his car door. “Good luck.”
    â€œSee you in the morning?”
    â€œRight here.”
    Garcia waved and a patrol car materialized, slid to the curb and whisked him away.
    Copeland started his car, flicked on a radar detector, punched the go pedal and let ’er rip. He howled and grinned like an outlaw down Broadway, busting through yellow lights and weaving in and out of traffic all the way to 57th where traffic finally slowed him down. The streets were deceptively empty, thousands of people having left the city for the long weekend. He continued on downtown to Wall Street. His fastest time for covering the distance between the deli and the garage beneath his office was twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds, and every morning his daily race against the clock took him right to the edge and set the tone for the day. No compromises, no discounts, and no surprises. He drove the way he conducted his business, with control that was hardly distinguishable from recklessness, squealing the tires, pounding the brakes, exulting in the rasping exhaust echoing off the stone-faced banks and brokerages.
    Wall Street was jammed. Ordinarily, many people didn’t come in to work on New Year’s Eve, especially on a Friday, and everyone knocked off early in the afternoon. Not today with Y2K hanging over the street like a guillotine. Untold billions of dollars were at the mercy of countless computer systems that could never be properly tested before crunch time. There was no way to run proper simulations because no one knew what was going to happen. Copeland knew it would be bad, as the early reports from the Pacific indicated, and the street was already in a tizzy. He didn’t care. He’d have Chase’s millions, and if Doc’s software worked as well as it should, by next week he’d have more megabuck orders to repair failed systems than he could fill.
    He zipped the last few blocks to Nassau Street and checked his Rolex: twenty-eight minutes flat, not great but not bad. Pulling inside, he parked next to Doc’s Jeep. Doc had installed a diesel generator in the garage, a satellite dish and solar panels on the roof, ostensibly to keep his legitimate Y2K customer-support people in