Are You Alienated (conclusion)
“A company has obtained a robust capitalization. Let’s say, upwards of three hundred million dollars. What does it do? This company is not a manufacturer of products. Its engineers, if one calls them as they call themselves, ‘conceptualize’.”
Quentin’s word. She must assume that it was to Tin Art, LLC, Emmett referred. The name, as Minta thought of it, represented Quentin and Art’s seedy little marriage. But also (she could hear them earnestly explaining), this idea of the pioneering mind…
“…where all things are taken back to their roots, their essentials.”
“A salt shaker,” Art had told her, his myopic eyes studying the microwave control panel. “A waffle iron.”
“As though,” (Quentin) “someone needed this thing for the first time in history, but instead of nineteenth century technology, they had no limits…”
“And so,” she said. “Art and Quentin are closet billionaires? Let me smack myself.”
“That,” Emmett smiled, “would be overstating the case. They are rich in intellectual property. As you know, their company functions as a clearinghouse. They match ideas to funding schemes.”
“Money,” Torbay put in, “is a wonderful tool for raising money. Even if you have borrowed money, and you must, of course, pay it back…you can raise money using the money you’ve borrowed.”
“But, if this is an international issue…and I’m guessing it has to be…are you saying Tin Art is transferring funds overseas?”
“Now you see, you’re an American. Every country is overseas to someone. Tin Art, it may be, has established an international presence.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Torbay said nothing.
She was, after all, the one in the dark. But Emmett and Torbay had sought her out. They were sharing information; albeit, not a great deal of it. “You said,” she turned to Torbay, and he in turn smiled at her. He had aged two decades; his hair was now grey, but his expression echoed that of his book jacket.
“You said”—Minta raised an eyebrow back at him—“that my name had come up.”
“It was,” Emmett answered, “a fortuitous coincidence. And I am not a believer in coincidence. We are familiar with Mr. Virgil. We had uncovered one cache of files that bore your name. Your name is rather unusual. Not knowing you, at the time, to be a person…”
“A particular person, no less…” Torbay murmured.
“The name,” Emmett finished, “might have referred to anything.”
Are You Alienated
(2015, Stephanie Foster)