The Revenue Man

Read an Excerpt:

By 2046, over thirteen billion people crammed themselves onto the sprawling, tough, dispassionate borough of Manhat, and on a particular Sunday morning, a sleek hovercar snaked its way through city back streets in order to avoid detection.

The vehicle, much like the driver itself, was the exclusive property of Rowe Scientific. The hovercar slotted itself effortlessly into an available parking space behind the Glickman Towers, activating an automated parking meter.

“Thank you for selecting ProtectPark, serving the community’s parking needs since 1999,” the meter announced through a tinny speaker. “To activate parking defense grid, please insert identicard.”

Revenue Agent JRH-0722 exited the vehicle, retrieving his attaché case, and inserted his card into the meter.

“Scan completed,” the meter said. “Please remove card. Your platinum membership entitles your vehicle to Maximum Theft-Deterrent Protection. Thank you for selecting ProtectPark,  where violator death is guaranteed and dismemberment is optional.”

JRH-0722 placed his card inside his jacket before crossing to the building’s rear entrance.

Inside the lobby, a man in a cap spotted the Revenue Man and pulled at the leash of a dog squatting beside a planter. The dog resisted with all four legs, while the man said, “C’mon, Sir Poops-A-Lot. I really don’t feel like getting taxed for loitering.”

JRH passed them and approached the directory. Following the instructions on the screen, he entered the first three letters of a surname, confirmed the apartment, and proceeded to the elevators.

An elderly couple joined him for the ascent. The woman was on a non-stop rant, berating her husband’s poor life choices, explaining the effect of his decisions on their lives. He sheepishly agreed at intervals, studying the floor indicator. When the doors finally opened on the one hundred and eleventh floor, she followed him out, still maligning his character, and JRH accompanied them as far as apartment 111C. He proceeded one door over and knocked.

Eddie Pacheco woke up reaching for something he couldn’t find. His hand swept the edge of the mattress, struck the bedside table, and sent a cigarette packet to the floor. For a few seconds he swore he was late for work. He could feel the lateness in his stomach before he understood where he was, and he dragged the sheet off his legs while trying to remember whether the alarm sounded.

The alarm clock said 10:07. Beneath the time, large enough to read without his glasses, was Sunday. He let his feet settle on the floor and remained on the edge of the bed, recovering from the unnecessary fright.

Another round of knocking shook the door.

“I’m coming. Give me a fucking minute.”

His first day off in more than a month. All he wanted to do was sleep until his back hurt, make himself something unhealthy to eat, and spend several hours accomplishing absolutely nothing. Apparently, even that required the cooperation of people who obviously considered ten in the morning a reasonable time to pay an unwanted visit.

He pulled on his robe and shuffled through the apartment. At the door, he worked the lock while the knocking continued inches from his face. Whoever was outside could surely hear him.

The visitor wore a suit, waistcoat, and tie. His hair was combed back, his case held neatly beside his leg. Eddie’s irritation weakened as he recognized the particular completeness of the outfit, everything fitted and fastened for a visit nobody wanted.

“Good morning, Edward A. Pacheco.”

“A taxbot? On a Sunday?”

“Rowe Revenue Agent JRH-0722, sir. My card.”

Eddie accepted it. The lettering was too small, and the background design made the whole thing harder to decipher. He brought it closer, then farther away, trying to separate the name from the little shapes beneath it.

“Ain’t got my cheaters on. What’s the background design, paisley?”

“No, sir. They are paramecia, doing their duty by paying their taxes.”

“Of course. How silly of me.” Eddie turned the card over. The reverse carried more print.

“May I enter?”

“The damage is done, I’m up, so, sure, why not.”

JRH crossed the threshold, and Eddie shut the door behind him. A shirt occupied one chair and a stack of unopened mail occupied the other. Eddie transferred the shirt to the back of his own chair, leaving the mail for the moment. He couldn’t remember anything arriving from Rowe that required an actual visit, though he might have put it aside after a shift and forgotten it.

“Excuse the mess,” Eddie said. “Maid’s day off.”

“You have a maid in your employ?”