Story code: ST-001391
Part 2: The Price of a Phantom
“Mike, you’re making a mistake,” Arthur said. The words tasted like copper in his dry mouth. His real voice sounded thin and reedy, completely lacking the rich, commanding resonance currently echoing from the smartphone on the napkin dispenser.
The synthetic Arthur on the counter continued its flawless narration. *”In any high-stakes negotiation, the party willing to walk away holds absolute power. Do not let them leave the room until the terms are dictated.”*
The irony felt like a physical blow. Mike stood firmly in front of the glass door, his massive frame blocking the only way out of Pete’s Diner. The neon ‘OPEN’ sign buzzed angrily above his bald head, casting harsh red light across his shoulders.
“No mistake, Artie,” Mike said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that carried over the hiss of the unattended grill. “You sat in my booth every morning. You ate my bacon, drank my coffee, and gave me a sob story about a dried-up industry. All while you were sitting on a gold mine.”
“It’s not what you think,” Arthur pleaded, taking a half-step backward. He bumped into the swivel stool. Harris, the burly contractor, was immediately there, moving into Arthur’s peripheral vision to cut off any retreat down the aisle.
“Then what is it?” Harris asked, crossing his thick, sawdust-covered arms. “Because it sounds exactly like you reading a book for a billionaire. My nephew says those guys pay half a million just for the buyout rights. So why are you trying to stiff Mike for four hundred bucks?”
Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped his own phone tight in his pocket, the plastic casing slippery with his sweat. He could not tell them the truth. If he admitted that his voice had been stolen-that a computer was likely generating those words without his consent-they would think he was treating them like idiots. To these people, hearing was believing.
“The money… it doesn’t work like that,” Arthur lied, his mind racing to construct a plausible Hollywood excuse. “Advances go into an escrow account. My agency takes twenty percent right off the top. Then the union takes their dues, and the IRS freezes thirty percent for estimated taxes. It takes ninety days for a single cent to clear. I literally don’t have access to it yet.”
Sheila, the waitress, stopped wiping the counter. She stared at him with cold, heavily mascaraed eyes. “That’s a nice story, Artie. But I read an interview with Vance Thorne. He prides himself on cutting out the middlemen. Direct payments to creators. That’s his whole brand.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “He’s lying for PR, Sheila. Please. I swear to you, I don’t have it.”
“Prove it,” Mike said from the door. “Open your banking app. Show us the balance. If it says zero, you can walk out that door, and we wait ninety days. If you’re lying, you pay up right now.”
Arthur froze. His thumb hovered near the edge of his pocket. He had fourteen dollars and twelve cents in his checking account. Showing them the truth should have been his saving grace, but the predatory gleam in Harris’s eyes told a different story. If they saw he was truly broke, they would realize they had been played for fools all winter. They wouldn’t believe he was innocent; they would believe he was a master con artist who had hidden the real money offshore.
“My finances are private,” Arthur said, trying to summon the authoritative baritone of his stolen voice. It failed completely.
Harris didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his massive, calloused hands grabbing the lapels of Arthur’s frayed wool coat. He slammed Arthur backward against the edge of the Formica counter. The impact drove the breath from Arthur’s lungs in a sharp gasp.
“Show him the damn phone, Hollywood,” Harris growled, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and black coffee.
“Okay! Okay!” Arthur wheezed, throwing his hands up. He dug into his pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out his phone. The screen illuminated his terrified face. He pressed his thumb to the sensor, unlocked the device, and tapped the blue icon for his credit union.
The screen loaded. *Available Checking Balance: $14.12. Savings: $0.00.*
He held the screen out toward Harris and Mike. “See? I told you. I have nothing. I’m dead broke.”
Harris squinted at the screen, his grip on Arthur’s coat loosening slightly. Mike took a slow step away from the door, his heavy brow furrowing in confusion.
Before anyone could speak, Sheila reached across the counter and snatched the phone directly out of Arthur’s hand.
“Hey!” Arthur yelled, trying to lunge for it, but Harris shoved him hard against the counter again, pinning him there with a forearm across his chest.
“Let’s just see how broke you really are,” Sheila muttered, her acrylic nails tapping furiously against the glass screen. She backed out of the banking app and swiped through his home screen. “Maybe you use a different bank for the big checks. Let’s look at your email.”
“You can’t do that!” Arthur shouted, panic surging through him. “Give that back!”
Sheila ignored him. She opened his email app and tapped the search bar. “Let’s just type in ‘Thorne’ and see what pops up.”
The diner fell dead silent. Even the audiobook playing from the napkin dispenser seemed to pause between chapters. Arthur struggled against Harris’s arm, but the contractor was immovable.
“Well, look at this,” Sheila said, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. She looked up from the screen, glaring at Arthur with absolute disgust. “You’re a real piece of work, Artie.”
“What is it?” Mike demanded, stepping closer.
“He got an email three days ago. It went to his promotional folder,” Sheila read, turning the screen so Mike could see. “From Vance Thorne Enterprises. Subject line: *Final Notice of Voice Licensing Settlement*.”
Arthur stopped struggling. The blood drained from his face. “What?”
Sheila turned her cold eyes back to the screen and read aloud. “*Dear Mr. Pendelton. Per the terms of the retroactive studio buyout, your final compensation of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars has been wired in full to the routing number provided on file. This concludes all financial obligations regarding your vocal synthesis.*”
The air in the diner turned instantly freezing. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“I didn’t see that,” Arthur gasped, shaking his head frantically. “I swear on my life, I never saw that email! Someone forged a contract. They stole my voice, and they stole the money! Look at the routing number, Sheila! Check it! It’s not my bank!”
“I don’t care whose routing number it is,” Mike said, his voice completely devoid of the friendly warmth he had shown for years. He reached beneath the diner counter and pulled out a heavy, iron tire iron he kept by the register. He laid it gently on the Formica surface with a sickening metallic thud.
“You’re sitting on a quarter of a million dollars,” Mike said, stepping right into Arthur’s personal space. “I want five thousand. Right now. Consider it a convenience fee for my generous credit terms.”
“I can’t!” Arthur choked out. “I don’t have access to whatever account that is!”
Mike picked up the tire iron. “Then you’d better figure out how to access it, Artie. Because nobody is walking out of this diner until my register is full.”