He tossed the bag into the back of the Mercedes, pulled out of the garage, and started down the private drive leading to the highway. It was nearly an hour's drive down into Fresno, to the nearest office worth complaining to. Parworthy deeply resented the waste of his valuable time, retired or not. He also hated driving on city streets, even in a relatively small metropolitan area like Fresno. Above everything else he valued his privacy, which was why he'd retired to the isolation of his new mountain villa.
People got out of Parworthy's way even when he was in a good mood. A big man, Parworthy was used to bulling his way past or over those he couldn't outtalk. When he stormed into a building the way he did into the telephone company's office, the other customers instinctively made a path for him.
Turning the sack upside down, he dumped the flip-phone onto the counter in front of the clerk. She was a pretty young thing, easy on the makeup, ruffled blouse and businesslike brown skirt. Parworthy picked up the phone and thrust it under her nose.
"This is the sixth time I've had service go out on me; and I'm goddamn sick and tired of it!"
"I'm sorry, sir. If you'll just calm down a little and tell me what's-"
"What's wrong? You bet I'll tell you what's wrong! I've replaced phones all month in my new house, and it doesn't matter what color or model they are because none of 'em are worth the plastic they're made of! I'm lucky if I can get three days worth of service before something else goes out on me. That's what happens when any outfit gets a virtual monopoly on any business. Sloppy service, sloppy manufacturing. Be better for the country when the whole stinking system is decentralized."
"Sir, I apologize, but-"
"I don't want your apologies, woman, I want the service I've been paying for and not getting! I can't even get a lousy local call through to the neighborhood grocery store, let alone place a call back east."
The clerk was near tears now, uncertain how to proceed and thoroughly intimidated by the roaring, blustering apparition that was Parworthy.
"What's the trouble here, Mildred?"
She turned gratefully to the newcomer. "Oh, Mr. Stapleton, it's this gentleman. He-"
Parworthy immediately jumped on the newcomer, a thin young man with a wide tie, retreating hair, and glasses.
"It's your damned excuse for a communications system! Do you know how much I had to pay per hundred meters of line just to get service at my house? Outrageous! Now I can't even call my doctor."
"I see . . . Mr. Parworthy, isn't it?" The man extended a hand. "If you'll just let me have a look at your phone, maybe we can locate the trouble."
Parworthy handed over the flip-phone. The supervisor looked it over, then extracted a screwdriver from the rank of small tools lining his shirt pocket and undid the base. After a short inspection he looked over the counter and spoke softly.
"Mr. Parworthy, this telephone has been subject to more than normal household use."
"You trying to tell me it's my fault?"
"I'm not saying that you haven't had difficulties with your service, sir, only that this unit shows signs of non-factory damage. It takes quite a lot to affect the insides of these new solid-state units, yet this one has more than several pieces broken or loose."
"What am I supposed to say to that? Can I help it if you can't make a sturdy piece of equipment?" Parworthy kept his gaze squarely on the supervisor. "All right, so maybe I lost my temper a little and tapped it a couple of times. I was doing so in the faint hope I might get it to work. Can you blame me? A whole month I've been trying to phone out from my house. I might as well be trying to talk to the moon."
"I'll take over here, Mildred." The clerk beat a hasty retreat to another counter. Stapleton smiled thinly at his irate visitor, activated the screen of a nearby computer terminal. He took a moment to study the readout, spoke without glancing away from the screen.
"This isn't the first damaged phone you've brought into this office, Mr. Parworthy."
"Junk. Plastic. Cheap components. Corner cutting at the plant. I used to be in manufacturing, and I know garbage when I see it. Maybe you can pan this dreck off on the general public, but I won't stand for it in my house."
"It's not just a question of inoperative units, sir," the supervisor went on, still studying the information displayed on the green screen. "I see from this report that running a line to your house was unusually difficult. The terrain is steep and rocky. On any tertiary line as long as yours there are always problems with moisture, wildlife, falling tree limbs, and such."
"I paid for service, not excuses."
"The point is, sir, that on any private line of that length interruptions in service are to be expected, especially during the first several months. We're doing our best to correct the problems. I'm sure you understand that we can't keep a whole field crew on call simply to work on your line. If you'll just be patient, I'm sure that by the end of next month at the latest these troubles will iron themselves out."
"I understand that I'm paying for service I'm not getting."
The supervisor sighed. "Don't worry about that, sir. You won't be charged for any time service is interrupted."
"I don't think you understand me, young man. I am not interested in being patient. I am interested in receiving the service I paid for. I have friends on the California Utilities Board, and I don't think they'd understand, either. If you couldn't supply proper service, you never should have agreed to run the line."
"That was our feeling here when your request for connection came in, sir. We were overruled, however, by orders from the regional office in Los Angeles."
Parworthy allowed himself a knowing smirk. "You bet you were. You'll be hearing from that office again real soon, too, if the trouble with my line isn't fixed immediately." Many people owed him favors from his days in industry.
Stapleton bit back the reply he wanted to make, forced himself to maintain a deferential attitude. "Take a replacement phone from the display rack, sir. I'll record your complaint and enter it into the computer's trouble file . . . along with the others." That was something of an understatement. Parworthy had a file all-to himself.
The retired industrialist turned to take his leave, not bothering to lower his voice. "I want it fixed by tonight, understand? Work in the dark if you have to, but let's see some action around here!" He departed, waving his new phone around like the head of some decapitated enemy.
The first thing he did after finishing supper was try out the kitchen phone. It was scratched and dented from previous assaults but, having escaped the bulk of Parworthy's fury, was still intact.
To his considerable surprise he got a dial tone-right away. It had been his intention to fire off an angry letter to his Los Angeles contacts first thing in the morning, describing his treatment at the incompetent hands of the local bumpkins. Now he could call it in.
That would be poetic justice. Despite the fact that the Fresno office had sent a work crew up the dangerous mountainside after dark, it would still be worthwhile to file a formal complaint concerning all the delays and trouble he'd experienced. Keep the natives on their toes. He grinned at the thought. The next time they saw him coming, they'd jump to it. And there would be a next time. He was sure of that. Past experience had shown that service wasn't likely to last more than a few days at best.
He flipped through a tattered notebook until he found the private number he wanted. Wexler wouldn't enjoy filing the complaint, but the man owed Parworthy several times over for favors granted as long as ten years ago. Parworthy never forgot a debt. He dialed the numbers.
The phone rang at the other end. He started to say, "Andrew Wexler, please, tell him it's-" but a mechanical voice, familiar and indifferent to interruption, broke in on his request.