Free The Theory of Games by Ezra Sidran Page A

ask the Authoritarian Man; there were no sales at that doorstep, and I concentrated far too hard on the distant tug struggling against the river. “Nick, I’m going to tell you a secret,” I said.
    Nick leaned in closer over the concrete table under the gazebo.
    “Nick,” I said, “you are one of the best coders alive today. In fact, gathered around this table are three of the top ten coders alive today.” Nick was on my right, the eastward side, so I squinted into the sun when I turned to look at him.
    Nick recoiled at the thought of what I told him. He knew his weaknesses, his shortcomings, his failings, “Naawwww, Jake, you’re putting me on.”
    “No, Nick,” I answered sincerely, “you really are that good. Or the rest of the world really is that bad – you take your pick – but that’s the reality of the situation.” I turned and looked back downriver; the tug had finally made the channel and had taken one of its engines off-line to conserve fuel. Another twenty-one days – and fourteen more locks and dams - and it would be pushing those sixteen barges into Minneapolis. River pilots are better than programmers. One fuck up and your career as a river pilot is over. One fuck up as a programmer and it’s just another morning before your first cup of coffee. No, I take that back, the really lame coders drink Pepsi One or some such crap.
    Kate said, “I’m going to take Bill for a walk,” and she and the big dog started off in the direction of the rising sun. I smoked and looked downriver and Nick looked downriver, too, probably not seeing what I was seeing but squinting very hard to see it, too.
    I took short, hard drags on the cigarette and held the comforting smoke deep in my lungs before I let it curl out about my mouth. The smoke, the river air with the scent of big catfish deep within, the sunlight, Katelynn and Bill vanishing into the distance, the taste of Katelynn from last night, the gazebo, Andy sculpting the outfield into Roscoe Rat – I could hear the Deere 220B purring behind the right-field fence – this was it. This was my last best day. This was my high-water mark. This very moment. This was all that I ever wanted; and more than I ever dared hope for. This was the high-water mark of Jakob Grant’s life.
     
    Nick went home and worked on the database all day.
    “And then?” the Authoritarian Man asked.
    And then Kate went home and ran herd on the all the kids working on the project and wrote some front-end code herself.
    “And then?” the Authoritarian Man asked.
    And then Bill and I went to the ballpark, watched batting practice and caught the first half of a double-header.
    “And?”
    And then Bill and I went home and we had a good day and we got a lot of work done and…
    “And?”
    And then the phone rang at 3:35 AM; I can remember swimming up from the deep warm pool of a wonderful dream to answer the phone. It was the police calling. It was the police and they wanted to see me immediately.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 3.O
     
    We were sleeping - Katelynn in my arms - Bill snoring away. It was the end of a good day. It was the end of a good day goddamit!
    And then the phone rang. At first I wove the phone into my dreams; but it wouldn’t turn off . It became insistent. So, I awoke. Katelynn was sleeping. Bill was sleeping. Out – beyond the bedroom door – all my students were sleeping. I answered the insistent phone.
    “Hello, Mr. Grant? This is the police dispatcher. Can you please come to 2475 Appomattox Road, apartment 3F?”
    What was this about?
    “I have no information. The officer on the scene has asked me to call you. Please come to 2475 Appomattox Road, apartment 3F.”
    2475 Appomattox Road, apartment 3F was Nick’s apartment.
    Those fucks. They wouldn’t say a thing.
    I awoke Katelynn. Bill woke up on his own.
    I quickly put my pants on; I put on an old River Rats jersey. I put on my socks. I found my watch and my glasses cached in a cubby hole of books in the