David Duffy - In for a Ruble

Upstairs, the expanse of the Basilisk engendered a small intake of breath.

“Jesus. Is that all computers?”

“Yep. Servers.”

“How many are there?”

“Never counted. Twelve rows, maybe twenty-five racks to a row, ten servers to a rack. That’s…”

“Is this the Big Dick thing your partner in crime boasts about?”

“A small piece of it. Probably the only noninvasive piece out there.”

“It invaded me as I remember.”

“Sometimes the end justifies the means.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. So you really could’ve found me, if you’d tried.”

“In less time than it takes to fly to El Paso.”

“Shit. And it’s legal?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t think I’m not going to look into that.”

We emerged from the server farm. Pig Pen heard us coming. He looked Victoria up and down, as he does with all newcomers. I was afraid he was going to whistle, a trick his boss taught him, but instead he announced, “Bohemia Bombshell!”

“What did he say?” Victoria said, turning.

“Sounded like ‘Bohemia Bombshell.’ It’s a compliment, I think.”

Pig Pen used to greet female visitors, almost always Foos’s Eastern European models, with “Cutie! Hot Number!” Apparently he’d been expanding his vocabulary.

“He’s a parrot. What’s he know about Bohemia? Or bombshells?”

“African gray, to be precise. Don’t sell him short. He gets his vocabulary from his boss, the radio, and his own bird brain, in that order. I’m responsible for foreign languages. C’est vrai, Pig Pen?”

“Russky.”

“See what I mean?”

“Wait a minute! He can… converse?”

“Sure. Why not? He’s smart, and he thinks he’s human. Visitors always pique his curiosity.”

“I don’t believe this.”

Pig Pen was clutching the mesh in his office door. Victoria walked slowly in his direction.

“Bohemia Bombshell,” Pig Pen said.

“I’m from the Bayou, parrot. Can you say, ‘Bayou Bombshell’?”

He looked her up and down again. 1010 WINS played in the background.

“Guess you’re right about bird brain,” she said.

“He’ll figure it out if he wants to,” I said. “Foos says he’s up to almost three hundred words. He can provide a complete report on the morning traffic interspersed with commercial appeals for food. How’re the bridges and tunnels, Pig Pen?”

“Twenty minutes, Holland. Ten, Lincoln.”

“GWB?”

“Ten, upper. Five, lower.”

“See what I mean? East River crossings?”

“Usual backups.” He fixed on Victoria. “Tiramisu?”

“Tiramisu?”

“His latest infatuation. Used to be pizza. Victoria is an aficionado of Italian food, Pig Pen. I’d keep at it, if I were you. You might get lucky.”

He climbed up the mesh to eye level and stared straight at her. “Bayou Babe. Tiramisu?”

“ Now you’re talking,” she laughed.

“Bayou Babe.”

“Where’d he get his name? Wait a minute. Let me guess.” She sniffed the stale marijuana smoke in the air. “Late drummer for the Grateful Dead?”

Foos’s boom box rumbled across the space. “Give the lady a cigar.”

“Bayou Babe. Cigar,” Pig Pen said.

“It’s rare that I’m happy to see a member of the prosecutorial profession return to the fray, but in your case, I make an exception,” Foos said.

“Owing, I believe, to our mutual friend here,” Victoria responded, “who I understand has been somewhat out of sorts.”

“Total flow-breaker. I kept telling him not to worry, but…” He shrugged.

“I also gather you and your cyber-serpent declined assistance.”

“As I told him, only a complete fool would take sides.”

“You got that much right.” She nodded at the server canyons. “He says that thing’s legal, but he’s a socialist. You’re probably a socialist too, but at least you’re an American. How about it?”

“It’s entirely legal, and that, Ms. Bayou Babe, is the whole problem, in a nutshell.”

He turned and retreated to his office. Victoria looked at me. “Is it me, or is he like this with everyone?”

“Pretty much everyone. He’s fanatical on the subject of privacy. You—or more accurately your employer, the U.S. government—is Public Enemy Number One, in his view.”

“I know. That foundation of his…”

“I’m on the board, remember? So’s Pig Pen.”

“Christ. Why am I not surprised?”

“The problem, Foos will be quick to tell you, is not the Basilisk. It can retrieve, sort, analyze, and match data faster and more efficiently than anything else, but it can only do that because the data got saved to be searched and analyzed in the first place. The real problem is the Big Dick—and all the information it collects and keeps on you and me and everyone else—all in the name of marketing, public safety, antiterrorism or whatever other excuse the Dickers come up with.”

“Now wait just a minute. Who are you to talk? You used to do much worse. Your government spied on everybody.”

“True enough. My bosses would have killed for this kind of capability. That’s why I’m on STOP’s board—I’ve been where this leads.”

“But you have no problem using it for your own ends?”

“Like the man said, it’s legal. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I can’t win.”

“Play your cards right and maybe you’ll get a demonstration of the beast at work.”

We went to Foos’s door. He was packing his messenger bag.

“Happy now?” he asked.

“Pure state of bliss, no thanks to you. I saw Nosferatu last night, outside Leitz’s brother-in-law’s building in Queens. The brother-in-law wasn’t there. Nosferatu had a key.”

He straightened, thinking for a moment. “That can’t be good.”

“Nope. But there’s that issue of perspective.”

“Always. Let me know if you need anything. Got a meeting.”

“What are you two talking about?” Victoria said.

“He’ll explain, I’m late,” Foos said and grinned at Victoria. “Going over to the ACLU. We’re looking at ways to collaborate.”

“Okay if I give her a little demonstration of the beast at work?”

“She’s a Fed, Turbo. Strictly limited access.”

He lumbered out the door.

“I’m beginning to understand one thing,” she said, “why you two get along.”

“How’s that?”

“You are both socialists. Neanderthal socialists.”

“Sharing had to start somewhere. C’mon, demo time.”

“Cuckoo time, you ask me,” she said, but she followed me to my office. Pig Pen took a shot as we crossed the open space.

“Bayou Babe! Tiramisu?”

“It’s still breakfast time, parrot. Nobody eats tiramisu for breakfast.”

That stumped him, but I guessed not for long.

Victoria took the chair I placed beside mine, and I opened my laptop and worked the keyboard. The Basilisk hissed. It took Walter Coryell’s name in its jaws and retreated into the darkness of its cave. A few minutes later it reemerged to spit out its findings.

The Leitzes all had their problems. Marianna and her husband. Julia and her obsession over her work. Thomas and his financial irresponsibility. Coryell was different. Maybe because he was only an in-law. Coryell was a fraud.

He and Julia maintained a joint checking account. She deposited $12,000 every month, he deposited $4,000. No small amount, certainly, but it suggested he was making around $100K annually. Julia said he was very successful. I couldn’t find anything that looked like a year-end bonus or dividend payment from his company. She, on the other hand, was bringing home a salary of $300,000 and banked a year-end bonus/profit share of $2.5 mil. Those all-consuming deals paid off—at least financially.