Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

The abductors’ remains had been found, one body in the wreckage of the truck, the other a floater that turned up near West Point a couple of days later. Both had rap sheets filled up with petty offenses and a pair of entries that got them a few years of prison time, but the offenses were not related. Neither one had a driver’s license or a credit card and according to persons who had known them, both were heavy drinkers, but there was no mention of drug use. One patrolman, who said he knew them both, reported that they’d do anything for a buck.

My notes were extremely sparse. I was officially listed as Bettie’s fiancé and had no knowledge of her affairs at work at all. I had listed her occupation as the head of “Computer Input” for a company known as Credentials. Their main occupation was to verify the statements and background of persons seeking employment in reliable companies. A handwritten addendum stated that Credentials was in good standing with the local bank they used and the business outlets they dealt with.

I scowled at the information and shook my head. Twenty years ago that word “computer” might have raised a red flag. But now? Hell, the kids in grade school were using them. I’d even had to learn to use the damn things myself before retirement kicked in.

There was a pamphlet at the bottom of the pages I held. Bettie’s office group had held a party on the twentieth anniversary of Credentials being in business. I pulled out the phone book and looked the company up to see if they still were operating.

They were.

In the Yellow Pages too, and their address hadn’t changed, either.

Bettie’s picture was in the pamphlet. She was the prettiest one there. It was nothing formal, a semi-posed color snapshot and she was wearing a daringly cut outfit that was the sign of the times back then. Two of her lady friends flanked her, their smiles flashing into the camera lens. Kneeling nearby was the paunchy figure of her section boss and off to the side of the picture were three young kids, one in a short-sleeved shirt and a vest, another sporting flashy suspenders and the third apparently lying on the floor fixing something. From what little showed of his face in the photo, he didn’t look happy at all.

There was nothing for me to see in the photo. It was over twenty-some years and whoever had been there then had probably moved on. I muttered “Maybe” to myself. Like Yogi Berra said, “The game ain’t over until it’s over.”

At least Credentials was a starting point. I tucked the pamphlet into my pocket, made a cup of coffee and got back on the street again. The rain had stopped. The clouds were still up there, but the pavement was drying off.

After a five-minute wait at the corner, a cab came by and gave me a ride to where Bettie had once worked. There were no sad feelings this time. Now I had Bettie alive and back in my life. In another day I’d see her. The airline ticket had been reserved and tonight I’d pack my bag.

At the office building I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and when the secretary asked who I wanted to see, I said, “Mr. Ray Burnwald. Is he still with the company?”

“Oh, yes,” she told me. “And what is your name?”

“Jack Stang.”

“You haven’t been here before, have you?”

I grinned. “About twenty years ago.”

She said, “Oh,” like I was an old customer and buzzed the boss’ office. When she hung up she pointed to a door and nodded for me to go on in.

Mr. Burnwald didn’t look like the picture he had taken with the other employees. Age had touched him with a rough brush. Most of his hair had disappeared. His smooth face now drowned under the wrinkles of the years and the sport of hearty eating had given him a belt size in the fifties.

But there was still a sharpness in his eyes. They looked at me, they watched me for a split second and he was running my image through his mental computer. “I never forget a face,” he said.

“Some I’d like to forget,” I told him.

“You’re not a customer.”

“Right.”

“You’ve been here before.” It was a statement, not a query.

“Right,” I said again.

“Cop,” he said. It was a flat statement.

“Retired now,” I said.

“It was when our poor Bettie was killed, wasn’t it?”

“Sharp, Mr. Burnwald. You’re a natural for this computer stuff.”

“I know,” he agreed. “What can I do for you?”

“Put that computer in your head to work. How much do you remember about Bettie before she was killed?”

Burnwald leaned forward on his desk, cradling his stomach on its edge. “I was only a section head then and had been Bettie’s super for about six months.”

“Any problems?” I asked.

“None. She was a very able person. We used to say she could even think like a computer.”

“Computers think?”

“With the high-tech advancements, so one would certainly suspect.”

“But not twenty years ago?”

“Well, they were on their way. Improvements were coming daily. New kids right out of college... and some even younger than that... were introducing developments that had unbelievable potential.”

I nodded, thought a moment, then asked him, “Looking at it now, how does that ‘potential’ stand?”

He knew what I was thinking and his wrinkled face broke into a wry smile. “For its time, it seemed incredible. There are few words to express what it’s like now. Only a genius can understand the workings of a computer today. And as for today’s potential, it takes another computer to arrange any conversation at all.”

“Bettie was smart,” I remarked, “but below genius level.”

“How would you know?”

“Because she was in love with me,” I stated quietly. “Machines don’t have love affairs.”

“Not yet,” he smiled. “Maybe someday.”

“How would they enjoy it?”

“They’d think of something.” He folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “And, unlike machines, geniuses can and do have love affairs... but I would agree — Bettie was bright, very bright, but hardly a genius. Neither am I, for that matter.... What was it you really wanted, Mr. Stang?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Describe Bettie’s job to me.”

This time he had to squint his face up and reach far back through the years and the improvements in computer product to recall the details of daily operations.

When he felt reasonably certain he had the scene in mind, he said, “In those days there were a lot of glitches. Nasty individuals would insert a virus into a system and wipe out computer operations for many hours. The anti-virus programs of today weren’t even on the horizon. Also, there were a lot of normal breakdowns that could shut off power for major cities, causing near-catastrophic situations.”

I bobbed my head and said, “I remember those days pretty well.”

“Bettie was on a team of computer operators who investigated those events.”

“This place had a team ?”

Burnwald shook his head. “Not this place. Bettie was the only such expert here. The rest of the ‘team’ was scattered across the face of the United States. They were all in instant contact and had access to government processors that would give them any information they wanted.”

Bettie had never mentioned any of this to me. I thought for a moment, then finally said, “Could that group break into government secrets?”

“I’m sure the federal people have their programs well-protected. But it wouldn’t have been impossible for an expert like Bettie. Still...” He paused, put his folded hands under his chin and asked, “You’re not accusing her of what they used to call... un-American activities.”

I shook my head and let him see me smile gently. “I knew her pretty well, Mr. Burnwald. We were going to get married.”