Underground Texas

Excerpt from the story Tunnel Vision by Sally Love
Carol Magnusson pushed her long brown waves behind her ears as she rushed to the elevator, the two-way clutched in her hand. She checked her watch, then slid the radio into its belt holster. She was in her second year as the building manager of a Houston skyscraper and this was her first emergency. The photo store’s print processor had overheated and sprung a leak, sparking a fire. She willed the elevator to hightail it down to the second floor where she caught the escalator to the Tunnel System.
Her speaker crackled. “Unit One, come in.”
“Unit One,” Carol replied, “Call it in. Make sure HFD knows the fire is out. I’ll meet them at the tenant.” She picked up her pace by running down the escalator. As she stepped off the tread, a heel caught in the gap between steps, sending the shoe flying. Carol steadied herself and scooped up the shoe. She put her bare toe down and scanned the tile for the broken heel until she spotted it half-hidden in a shadowed corner.
Carol grabbed the heel, slipped it into her pocket and toe-stepped her way to the photo shop. “What’s the damage?” she asked the shop manager.
“Machine’s a total loss, but I got to use the fire extinguisher.” The young man smiled. “It works great.”
Carol checked around the machine, eyeing the green spill mixed with extinguisher foam seeping along the fire-blackened tile. “Everybody’s okay?”
He nodded.
“I’ll send maintenance to help with the clean-up.” After the firemen gave the okay, she limped out and rounded the corner. Fortunately, the new shoe shop was only a few doors down.
Carol loved the tunnels—seven miles of air-conditioned walkways twenty feet below downtown Houston streets. She’d even taken the official Tunnel Tour on her own time. Carol’s company leased, managed, and protected the tunnels under her building, manning strategically placed gates with twenty-four/seven security. Other cities had their measly little skywalks a couple of stories high, meandering riverwalks, or subway stations designed by big-name architects. But Houstonians could escape scorching days, strangling humidity, or tropical-storm-force rains by descending to a city beneath the city.
Good thing TRIPLE-G SHOE REPAIR had opened a few days early, or she’d be showing lease space this afternoon on bare feet. As she hobbled to the counter, one of the lease signatories, Garwood Moore, emerged through a sliding panel from the back room.
A fun part of her job included seeing innovations in action. The sensor to detect approaching customers was ingenious. So that’s how it works. Clever idea. After all, the most important component of a successful service business was a prompt, friendly proprietor.
Carol had been surprised when the son of one of Houston’s elite families showed up to view lease space. She was more than a bit puzzled when the business turned out to be shoe repair. Somehow a twenty-something who bunked in the River Oaks zip code didn’t fit with a store that replaced shredded laces, shined and re-soled wingtips, or reattached broken heels. But the financial information Gar submitted, along with a Letter of Intent to Lease, proved healthier than most of the other small tenants. Her job depended on keeping the building leased with a maximum revenue stream, not investigating a trust fund baby with a yen to shine shoes. She welcomed the new paying tenant to her section of the tunnel.
Gar was drop-dead gorgeous—black hair, spiky but not punk, red-carpet smile and intense blue eyes—the kind that might entice a woman to forget her pledge to swear off attractive men. Carol had firsthand knowledge of the chaos a Looker could cause. She’d learned her lesson and then some. But it never hurt to add a piece of eye candy to her tunnel section to lure droves of appreciative women.
Gar leaned a tanned arm on the counter as Carol placed the shoe and its detached heel on a cloth pad.
“Aaah, an injured slingback.” He rewarded her with The Smile and motioned her past the shoe-shine stand to an upholstered wingback chair labeled, “Barefoot Zone.”
“Let’s get this casualty to our ace cobbler.” Gar turned to the back wall and laid his palm on the partition. “I’ll have him put a rush on your emergency.” A split second later, the partition slid open just enough for him to pass through.
Carol peered into the dimly lit area behind the wall, unable to make out any details before the sliding door snapped shut. Must be another sensor. Although she’d been through the empty space before she signed TRIPLE-G, the owners had politely declined to use the management’s construction company. TRIPLE-G had handled its own build-out and inspections. Neither Gar nor the other two owners had invited Carol to tour the finished area. Most tenants couldn’t wait to show off their new build-outs.
Gar returned, sat next to Carol and proceeded to regale her with the details of his weekend feral hog hunting trip at his family’s South Texas ranch. She had to hand it to Gar, he could tell a story, but his touching her arm to emphasize a point shifted from sexy to creepy as his touches reached seven.
He tapped the Bluetooth earpiece and listened. “Back in a moment.” Gar glided through the wall, then returned with the slingback, heel re-attached. He knelt down and slid it on Carol’s foot, caressing her arch with an experienced hand.
She managed to ignore the not-so-subtle caress, then stood, tested the heel, and pulled out her wallet.
“No, ma’am, Miz Carol,” Gar drawled. “Consider this a goodwill gesture to a damsel in distress.”
Carol studied Gar. He’d said the words with a straight face. The guy was good—lots of practice.
Gar hooked a thumb into an expensive khaki belt loop. “And before I forget it, we need access over the weekend.”
Uh-huh. A special request. Never let your guard down. “Will you need the AC?”
He shook his head. “Won’t be here that long.”
Carol turned to see owner number two, Reginald, RG, Graydon, wheeling a box showing a four-color label of a Sun Sparc server. She let out a low whistle and raised a brow. “Sun Sparc. Y’all are bringing the big guns.” Why would a shoe repair shop need more horsepower than a basic PC loaded with QuickBooks?
A few inches shorter than Gar, with a solid gym-toned physique, RG stopped briefly, offering a respectful nod to the building manager. He ran a hand through his longish, sandy-brown hair and continued. As he rounded the corner guiding the new server, he blew a monstrous pink bubble, flicked a playful glance at Carol, then popped it with his teeth.
Gar flinched at the sound and sent an immediate glare at RG, then a slow smile at Carol. “We’re aiming to link TRIPLE-G with additional stores as we expand. This location will be the hub.”
Carol held back a laugh at RG’s boyish fun and took in Gar’s explanation with a decade-and-a-half of experience in the feast and famine world of commercial real estate. She wiggled the foot sporting the mended shoe at Gar and RG. “Thanks again for the quick fix.” She’d realized from the first meeting that this trio wasn’t your average mom-and-pop operation. They had chosen teak flooring, marble counters, grasscloth wall coverings, titanium light fixtures, plus embedded sensors for nifty sliding walls. These folks would be interesting.
Carol meandered through the tunnels back toward her building, enjoying the mid-afternoon lull. She pulled her ringing phone from a suit pocket.
“Mom, did you remind Dad to pick me up?” her son blurted before she had a chance to say “hello.”
She tightened her grip. “Yes, baby, I sent him an email.”
“Don’t call me that,” Jason snapped. “I’m almost twelve. I called him, but it went to voice mail. I just sent another text.”
Carol grimaced, trying to keep her voice even. “Give him another fifteen minutes, then call me back.” She paused. “Are you in front of the school? Where the circle driveway is?”
“Duh!”
Carol let that one go. Pick your battles, she reminded herself. Damn, Paul. For once, put your son first. She didn’t blame Jason for being angry. By now the school bus had delivered half his classmates. And the grandparents who usually kept him until she got home were in the middle of a movie matinee. Damn, Paul.
* * * *

Gar waited until Carol turned the corner and was no longer in sight, then turned on RG, fists balled. “I told you to wait until after closing to bring stuff inside.” He grabbed a handful of RG’s T-shirt. “Stick with the plan.”
RG backed off a step and slapped at Gar’s fist. “Watch it, dude. This is an original REO Speedwagon shirt.” He smoothed the fabric over his flat belly, then leaned into Gar’s sneer. “Don’t forget. You need me.” RG wheeled the Sparc around the counter and through the disappearing wall.
Gar reined in his temper and studied the third partner, Genna Trotter, a gangly blonde sporting skinny, black-rimmed glasses. She spotted his stare and threw back a reserved smile and half a wave while her fingers manipulated a keyboard. She stopped momentarily, gathered her hair into a ponytail at her nape, and clipped it with a silver barrette. Even the tight black jeans and long-sleeved, knit shirt barely revealed a woman’s form. She had a pre-teen shape, all angles and joints.
Genna still held the combined high school/college record in the Hacker Hall of Fame for stealing and distributing the largest quantity of exams without being caught. He thought she had been stupid for posting them for free, but Genna wasn’t in it for the money. She was a digital goddess in the hacker world and the rep was enough. He’d keep her, at least for a while, for security, to make sure the software worked as planned.
As awkward as she seemed in social and business situations, Genna worked miracles with computers. Sit her in front of a keyboard, and she’d overflow her earbuds with heavy metal while coaxing three surrounding monitors to sing in harmony. So far, her software savvy had been the key to their monetary success. More important, managing Genna was easy: a wink here, a pat there, and she’d walk a plank for him.
Gar followed RG out the back door into the freight elevator and up to the street-level dock.
“Grab those three first.” Gar pointed inside the truck. RG rolled the loaded dolly into the freight elevator, down a level to the maintenance hallway, and into the back door of TRIPLE-G.
“Careful,” Gar growled. The pricy, new equipment would launch the trio into uncharted wealth.
RG unpacked the shelving, then began assembly. He remained silent as he stepped through a sea of metal parts. “The shelves will have to support a lot of weight.” With a wide grin, he pitched a flathead screwdriver to Gar. “Righty-tighty.”
Gar whirled and gave RG a menacing glare, letting the screwdriver bounce on the newly installed carpet.
“I’m just saying.” RG screwed in the reinforced braces, then after a quick shake to check for stability, shifted a unit to the wall.
Some months before the two partners had walked off the measurements of the TRIPLE-G space. Beyond their back wall lay a hallway—a mere three feet wide—used as a maintenance corridor. Throughout the day, plumbers, electricians, and construction crews hurried to and from tenants. RG had designed the store around a hidden room especially constructed to hold a series of powered-up integrated servers.
“Come hold this, pard.” RG steadied a shelf.
Gar ambled over, making sure his expression reflected his contempt for manual labor.
RG quickly attached the shelf, then moved to the next and the next with efficiency.
Gar ripped open a package of cloths and wiped a fine layer of dust off his hands and custom shirt, then stood back and watched RG tighten each screw. Righty-tighty my ass. As soon as this room is operational, you’ll be history.
Gar had brought RG in only recently and he was becoming a problem. Some years older than Gar and Genna, RG had the experience the partnership needed for now. And he could configure hardware like nobody Gar had ever seen. The skill sets of the three partners meshed perfectly. Profits split only three ways. Best of all, since Gar was the company’s brains and founder, his cut totaled twice that of RG’s and Genna’s. The only improvement would be a one-man operation and no profit split.